Stay Alive
by MyFavoriteDaydream
Summary: Haymitch Abernathy is reaped for the Second Quarter Quell. -"I feel like I'm a jabberjay. Like I was raised up for some purpose by the Capitol, to be a tribute. And once I've played my part, I'll be useless to them. That's why, if I win, I want to be like a mockingjay. The one they threw away… but who still makes it, in the end."
1. Chapter 1

A dramatic cry of protest from the kitchen pulls me out of a fitful sleep. My mother must have gotten my younger brother up for his haircut, a pre-reaping tradition she's upheld since I was twelve. Of course my brother goes first since he certainly needs a lot more work than I do.

I lay in bed for a while, listening to the quiet clucking of the chickens in the back yard come in through my open window, in no rush to start the day. Nobody in District 12 is exactly jumping out of bed today. If there were no legal consequence, nobody would bother, especially not this year. Because this year is the Quell. It's a given that every year I have intrusive fears of being reaped for the Games. But this year, it's intensified. Double the number of tributes will be culled. The worst-case scenarios I used to imagine pale in comparison to the ones I have now. Myself, my brother, my girl; this is the first time we may all be drawn to compete against each other in a battle to the death. Forty-eight tributes; only one can win.

The thought eliminates any chance of me getting back to sleep, and I reluctantly get up from the warmth of my bed. I drag my bare feet into the kitchen to see what damage had been done. I'm met with my brother swiveling around on his stool, "Haymitch, look at what mom did. It's too short!" He says this while grabbing a fistful of his curly brown hair easily in his fingers.

I push my hand into his face, guiding him off the stool so I could have a seat, "Well, Elias, at least you still have your pretty face." He frowns at my sarcasm and gives me a light whack on the back of my head before sulking back into our shared bedroom. We always teased and fought, but it was never serious. It's just so easy to make fun of him, and he always snaps right back.

My mother gives me a kiss on the forehead and drags her fingers through my hair, "Good morning, sweetheart." She deftly snips her scissors at my hair while I rub the sleep from my eyes and says, "I didn't get a chance to pick up anything to eat this morning, but help yourself to some apples. The Everdeens' boy brought them over in exchange for a haircut."

My mother is a schoolteacher. She teaches writing for the 6th and 7th year students. But after my father died, my mother supported us by moonlighting as a hairdresser from home. So in the days leading up to the reaping, it wasn't uncommon for boys to come over for a haircut, or even for a neat shave if they were older. Since so many were poor Seam kids, they often bartered with my mother for her services.

She snips at my hair a few more times before handing me a small mirror, "All done. Have a look."

My hair was only given a trim, so it still hangs over my forehead, but at least I won't have to brush it out of my eyes anymore. Unlike Elias, I hadn't been growing my hair out, so there wasn't much work to be done. My mother combs my hair to the side and I say, "Nice job, as usual. Thanks mom."

She smiles and pulls me up to stand in front of her. She clutches at the carved wooden pendant she wears on a woven necklace and mutters, "You look more and more like your father every year."

I always have mixed feelings when she says things like this. I don't know if it helps or hurts her that I am my father's spitting image. It has only been a few years since he passed away. He managed to escape a fire in the mines, but the smoke and coal dust he inhaled on the way out left him sick for the last few months of his life until the black lung took him. I suppose I just don't like being her constant reminder of his absence. But at the same time, I know she finds comfort in this. And my father was a great man, so I do take pride when she compares me to him.

She wraps her arms around me and sighs, "I don't ever want to let you boys go."

"I know, mom." I can't promise anything. I can't say that I'm hers, and that I'm not going anywhere; because today I belong to the Capitol. Today, my mother will have to let me go and risk losing me in the reaping.

We stay like that for a while before she pulls away, trying and failing to hide her teary eyes as she says, "Go get changed. I won't have my son in the district square in his pajamas."

I smile. She never lost her humor, even after my father's death, even after sending my brother and me to the reaping year after year. I go back my bedroom where Elias already has on some of my old hand-me-down clothes that hadn't been damaged or dirtied much over the years. He wasn't quite big enough yet to fit into my father's clothes, which I put on this year. They are still a little big, seeing as my father was burly from years in the mines and I'm thin and scrawny from years of not having quite enough to eat. Just a side effect of living in the Seam.

I take a small wooden token from the dresser and slip it into my pocket. My father had made a hobby of whittling and in the months leading up to his death he carved us each a decorative piece to remember him by. I never left home without the decorative coin, covered in intricate swirls and stripes.

Elias, lacing up his shoes, gives out a long sigh. He never liked to bring up what was bothering him until someone dragged it out of him, so I roll my eyes and ask, "What is it, Eli?"

He shakes his head, "We both have a higher chance this year." He speaks softly. Two years ago he had lost his best friend Mason to the Games. The kid was only 13, so his name had only been on two slips of paper in that giant confetti of names, but he was still chosen. Elias knows first-hand that even the slimmest of chances are enough to get you reaped.

I button up my shirt, "Yeah, well, so does everybody else. Don't worry. No matter what they say, our odds aren't that high." I forbade Elias from collecting tesserae since we got on fairly well with the tessera I've been collecting since my father's passing. Yes, it was still tough, and I often went without so that Elias always had enough growing up, but we're surviving. It only cost me a few extra entries among thousands of others in the reaping ball.

Elias doesn't really seem satisfied with my answer and keeps brooding the way he only does at this time of year. He heads out and says, "In that case, let's hope we're lucky."

I hear the television click on in the living room, and extravagant music and commentators' babbling stream throughout the house. Some other district is having their reaping now. Four kids are being chosen and sized up by Capitol announcers who wonder out loud how far each of them will make it in the Games.

I look myself over in the mirror above the dresser and frown at a growing blemish on my cheek. Besides that, I have to admit, I look good. Back in the kitchen, my mother is snipping at a young boy's hair, probably one of her students. His mother sits at the table, her hands fidgeting in her lap as she stares at him. This must be his first reaping. I pocket a couple of apples from the pantry and remind Elias to meet me in the square later so we can wait through the reaping together. As I'm making my way out of the house, I give my mother a kiss on the cheek, "I'll see you after the reaping."

She squeezes my hand, "See you then, sweetheart. I love you."

The Seam is just starting to bustle. On the average day, everybody would have been up and about by now. But everybody has the day off today to watch the reaping. I make my way to the merchants' part of town and wait behind the sweets shop. Hardly anybody in 12 can afford anything in there. For the price of a few tiny beads of candy-coated chocolate, one could buy a small loaf of fresh bread down at the bakery. The luxury wasn't worth the coin. But the lack of shoppers made it a nice, quiet place to have to oneself.

I sit on the back stoop of the shop and take a bite out of one of my apples. The old shopkeeper didn't mind. She knew I only ever came here for one reason. And that reason is rounding the corner and making her way towards me. The old shopkeeper knew what love was once, and she couldn't shoo away a charming young man who wanted to see his girl in private sometimes, especially not on the day of a reaping.

"Leila!" I stand from my spot on the stoop and wait for her. She gives me a smile. There are only two good things about the reaping. First, everybody seems to look better. They all dress their best and at least run a comb through their hair, so you can almost pretend District 12 is actually much nicer than a coal-covered, poverty-stricken mining town. Second, everybody seems to appreciate and love each other a little more.

Leila looks beautiful. She usually does, but today she's got on one of her mother's old dresses, and her dark hair has been pinned up, leaving only a few strands to frame her face. And I don't know how I could love her more than I did before, but somehow, I do.

She reaches me and wastes no time throwing her arms around my neck, "Haymitch!" I hold her close to me and plant a kiss on her head. We let ourselves forget what day it is, where we are, what we're worried about, only when we're with each other like this. I love this girl so much, it's almost embarrassing. Almost.

But it really does feel embarrassing when I catch the old shopkeeper peering from between her curtains with a knowing grin, and I pull away from Leila. The woman gives me a wink before she shuts her curtains again. I shake my head and once she's gone, I bring my attention back to Leila, "You look beautiful."

She smiles again, "You clean up pretty good yourself."

I take the other apple in my pocket and hand it to her, "I can't offer you any chocolates, but they say fruit is nature's candy. Hopefully this will do."

We sit on the stoop and she takes a bite from the apple, savoring the taste, "It's so good. It's sweeter than any chocolate. Thank you." These apples are crisp and incredibly sweet. One of the only ways we get fresh fruit around here is if they are in season and someone is daring enough to go beyond the fence and harvest them. If not, they carry a high price at the grocer's and they are almost always bruised and bitter if they come from Capitol shipments. We eat in silence, allowing each other the peace to enjoy our delicacies without distraction. I toss the core, or what's left of it, under the stoop along with Leila's.

Leila says, "So, one more Games. And a Quell, at that." She takes my hand in both of hers, playing with my fingers, "Maybe it's just the double reaping this year, but I'm worried. For the both of us."

It hurts to hear her say this, and I want to go back to forgetting everything with her. I pull her close to me and we wrap our arms around each other as I kiss her. She tastes of autumn and apples.

She breaks the kiss and rests her head on my shoulder. I brush a strand of hair behind her ear and say, "Relax. There's no use getting worked up over this yet."

This doesn't seem to distract her from the inevitable reaping. She says, "I know. I've been doing a good job ignoring it lately, but I just can't do it anymore."

I sigh, "It'll be over soon. We just have to stick it out until the reaping is over."

She nuzzles closer to me, "I'm sorry. I can't help it. I'm just worried about me and you. Our families, our friends. Every possibility keeps coming to the front of my mind." She shifts her gaze and mutters, "What if it's me?" I hadn't really considered a scenario in which only Leila is chosen and I stay behind. I hadn't wanted to consider it. Would I volunteer for one of the male tributes, if only to stay by her side and help her survive? I'd like to think I would. I certainly love her enough. But at the same time, I doubt myself. For people like us, being reaped is equivalent to a death sentence. District 12 kids never win, and this year is no different. I just hope that I won't have to make that decision today.

Leila wraps her arms around my neck and pulls me out of my mind with the hint of a smirk, "I suppose I just need something to distract me."

I take her hint and laugh, shaking my head, "You know just what to say to drive me crazy." I lean in to kiss her and mutter against her lips, "I'll give you something distracting."

Leila's fingers run through my hair and she deepens the kiss. We wind up flat on the stoop, and I want to make her forget everything the way she makes me forget.

I hold myself over her and kiss her neck. She lets out the tiniest whimper that drives me wild. Her hands slide up and down my body and my hands do the same. And I hope she's forgetting, because suddenly, I can't.

The fear has sunken into me again, despite my efforts against it. I wanted to tell Leila I could protect her. I wanted to tell Elias he wouldn't be in the games because I would volunteer if he was chosen. I wanted to tell my mother she wouldn't lose both of her boys. But these Games, this Quell, render me powerless. I cannot protect Leila. If both my brother and I are selected, I cannot save him from the arena. If we are both in the arena, I don't know how long I could protect him for. If it came down to the two of us, I would rather kill myself than take his life. But chances are, we would both die, and I don't know how long my mother would want to last without us. There are too many possibilities and even knowing that the odds of any of them becoming a reality are low doesn't calm me down in the slightest. Not anymore.

But I hear a breathy moan from Leila that brings me back to the place where only she and I exist. I kiss her wherever I can find skin and she grazes her fingers over every part of me she can reach. She drags me out of reality and into a dream in which she is mine and I am hers, and nothing could force us to part. I kiss her neck again and feel her rapid pulse against my lips and I hope that it's not fear of the Games causing it. I want to be the one making her blood race right now. As if she had read my mind, she breathes out my name and I love the way she says it.

And then the bell sounds, announcing that the reaping will begin shortly. We stop and stare at each other for a moment, catching our breath. We get up and fix each other up so we don't look so disheveled. I brush her hair back behind her ear and say, "I love you, Leila. So much."

Leila, already holding back tears, says, "I love you too, Haymitch."

We take each other's hands and head towards the square in silence. Elias is waiting for me, leaning against the wall of the building opposite the decorated justice building. I give Leila's hand a squeeze before she goes to register herself and wait with the other 16 year old girls.

Elias smirks at me, "You're all red in the face. Been going at it again?"

I roll my eyes, "Shut up. Why don't you get a girl soon so I can make fun of you? Oh wait, I forgot that you wet yourself every time you ask a girl out."

Elias punches my arm, "Hey! That was in first grade! Let it go already."

I can't help but laugh at him as we go to register ourselves. When we're separated by age, I stand in the front of the group of sixteen year olds and Elias stands at the back of the fifteen year old group so that we can stand beside each other.

The reaping ceremony begins. The old mayor recites the history of Panem, as if the rebellion, the defeated districts and the resulting games haven't been drilled into our head enough over the years. He reads the list of past victors, although there is only one and she's not around anymore. The only thing different in this reaping is the mayor's somber reminder of the condition of the Quell. The ceremony is still as dull as it is every year, and the most excitement I can get out of it is trying to guess what color District 12's escort's hair is this year.

Someone claps me on the shoulder and says, "Haymitch! It's been too long!"

My buddy from school has found me in the crowd, "Hey there, Bailey. How was your holiday?"

He frowns, "It's been good, except I've hardly seen you since school started." He jokes, "Has Leila been keeping you all to herself? I don't really think that's fair."

I say, "Yeah, well, how about I make it up to you? We'll have a soccer match after school tomorrow with the guys. How's that sound?"

"Only if we aren't reaped!" His sense of humor has always been dark, and maybe it's inappropriate to make a joke like that at a time like this, but I end up laughing with him, more from nerves than actual humor.

The mayor interrupts our conversation when he announces the escort's entrance. Bailey says, "Listen, I've gotta get back. Ben's waiting for me." He gestures to the back of the group and I can just make out his brother waiting with the seventeen year old boys. "Good luck, man."

"You too." He weaves his way through the crowd and I turn my attention back to the justice building.

The escort marches across the stage with her sky blue hair and enormous false eyelashes that I can see fluttering even from where I stand. The mayor introduces her as Valera Martella. She takes the microphone and announces the games with relish, recounting the significance of the Quell. She chatters on for a while before the dreaded moment arrives. She trills into the mic, "Ladies first!"

I run my thumb along the ridges in the wooden coin in my pocket and Elias gives my shoulder a squeeze as the first name is pulled. Valera calls out, "Amara Tippins!" I don't know who the girl is, but I'm relieved it's not Leila. I feel guilty, though, when the girl turns out to be only 12 or 13 years old. The second name is being drawn and I feel even more panicked. Not Leila. Not Leila. Luckily, her name is not called. A girl who looks like she could be from the Seam tears herself away from her friends who are both definitely the daughters of merchants. I don't know her personally, but we shared a few classes over the years in school and she seems familiar.

I wish I could be a bit more upset for the female tributes, but I'm just happy Leila hadn't been chosen. The thought terrifies me more than I'd like to admit, but I'm glad to know it's not happening this year. I smile at Leila who stares back at me with worry. It's her turn to hope my name won't be called.

Valera mentions what an honor it is for the girls to participate in the games before she reaches her hand into the ball filled with slips of paper with the boys' names on them. My heart races again. It races for me, for Elias, for my mother, for Leila. This time, I clasp Elias' shoulder, hoping to give him a feeling of support, even though I feel like I may be holding onto him so that I don't stumble. The escort unfolds the slip of paper and announces some other boy's name. Relief. I look and notice how many slips of paper remain. I had signed up for tesserae a few times, but who hasn't? Sure, my odds were up, but they weren't higher than anybody else's.

The escort reaches for the second name. I grip Elias' shoulder tighter and look over at Leila, trying to reassure her with a look. The odds aren't in my favor, and I tried to communicate this to her from across the square.

I don't even realize what's going on when Elias throws himself at me, gripping me as tightly as he can, screaming into my chest. Valera calls for what sounds like a second time, "Haymitch Abernathy? Would you please come up to the platform?"


	2. Chapter 2

Everything freezes and I see everything so clearly. My brother clinging to me, Leila screaming my name as she tears through the crowd, my mother in the back, collapsing into the arms of the other spectators. The boys around me stare at me with a mixture of relief and pity in their eyes. They have escaped the arena this year. I can't say the same.

And then something in my mind clicks and I've shifted gears.

I am in survival mode. I know what I need to do.

I grab Elias' arms, standing him up straight, "They'll let me see you before I leave. Go help mom. Now." Elias nods in understanding and gives my hand a squeeze before looking for our mother.

The other boys around me clear a path as I approach the stage, brightened with yards upon yards of fabric and carpeting to hide the eroding, sun-bleached stone platform and pillars. I hear Leila crying my name and the pain in her voice breaks my heart, but I don't look back at her. I'd lose my composure, I know it. I can't show any weakness. I've seen enough games to know that if you cry, the less likely you are to get any gifts in the arena. If you cry, you can come across as weak, and you may not get any help. And that's often the difference between life and death.

I get to the platform and take my place on the stage beside my fellow tributes. My competition. The lights are surprisingly bright and hot on me, overwhelming in the late summer heat. I see blinking red lights from the cameras positioned all around me. Valera spouts something out at me before heading back to the center of the stage. I squint my eyes to peer through the bright sun and light bulbs to see the crowd. A group of girls had held Leila back and were comforting her. Better that than have the peacekeepers handle her. Elias has reached my mother and she's clutching at his shirt like her life depends on it. Elias isn't crying anymore. He's already steeled himself to be our mother's crutch throughout the Games.

The mayor begins his long recitation of the Treaty of Treason. As if it matters. I suddenly find myself with a lot on my plate and hearing this Treaty for the sixteenth time is the last thing I care about. For the Capitol to claim that the Districts were at fault for starting a rebellion while simultaneously lining kids up for slaughter; it's a sick joke.

I instead think of my family. My mother is strong. But after losing my father, I don't know how she could manage losing a son. It was devastating for her to lose my father, but she had me and Elias to put her back together. She still missed him, but she carried on. But if she lost either myself or Elias, well, I just don't know if she could be put back together a second time. She can only handle so much.

Elias will have to dote on her from now on. He will have to reassure her throughout the Games. And if I die, he cannot mourn me. He has to care for our mother. As much as it pains me, he'll have to grow up fast. There's a lot to take care of. They'll still need food and money. I collected my share of oil and grain from my tesserae just the other day. It should hold them over throughout the Games. If I don't make it back, Elias may have to sign up for more tesserae himself , but maybe not, since there'll be one less mouth to feed.

I feel sick to my stomach that I'm even entertaining the idea that I might not come back, but I remind myself that it's now a very likely possibility; almost a certainty. With forty-seven other tributes in a deadly arena, I could very well be taken out within the first five minutes.

Then I think of Leila. My heart sinks. I never really allowed myself to think too far into the future for exactly this reason. I never thought too much of it. I didn't let myself. If you don't have any dreams, they can't be taken away from you. At least, that's what I thought.

But right now, I realize that I want to be with Leila forever. I want to marry her. I want wake up to see her in the morning. I want to come home from a long day of work and see her waiting for me with a smile in our own home. I want to see her with a round belly and I want to chase around our babies that will all be beautiful because they made from a part of her. In a split-second, I have all of these dreams. And just as quickly, they are ripped away, exactly as I had feared, and it tears away at me.

Invisibly, I mourn the loss of my future with Leila. And then I think of her, right now. My poor Leila. Surrounded by her friends who try to comfort her, she ignores them. Her face is marred with tears and she stares at me through them. She's probably feeling like I am right now. She's probably wondering if this is just a bad dream. She's probably staring me down to confirm that what she's seeing is real.

But her father reaches her in the crowd and she crumbles in his arms, her face disappearing into his chest, hiding from the harshness of the reality in front of her. He holds her and I can see him smoothing her hair, whispering in her ear. Watching them, it's as if Leila is a small child again, scared and defenseless. But I'm comforted knowing that at least she will not be alone. Her father will protect her now that I can't. And if I die...

Leila is still young. If I die, she'll get over it eventually. She'll just be another girl who lost her boyfriend to the Games. It's not uncommon. I've seen girls and boys alike at school crying over the reaping and eventual deaths of their loved ones. The older ones have already moved on and found other people, tired of mourning. And Leila is no exception; she will do the same.

The thought is unbearable, and the only good I can see in it is that she can at least have a happy future. If she can't have one with me, I'd rather she finds it with somebody else than live out her days alone. I imagine her in a house with a faceless man, smiling at him, giving him her kisses. I feel selfish, but I can't help the jealous pang that shoots through me.

Then the anthem booming through the speakers shakes me back into my new life. My life as a tribute. I steel myself for the cameras again. The anthem crashes to a close, the cameras waver for a moment longer and then I'm taken away.

I'm led into a lavish room and I'm left alone. I peek through the blinds and watch the square grow empty. The younger children high-tail it out of there, running straight to their parents or older siblings so they can be safe in their arms once again and led back home. The older ones stay near their friends, and they're probably briefly mentioning the tributes before making plans for the next day in an effort to forget that their lives could have been claimed today. A few clusters of people stay behind, the crumbling bodies of those who just lost their friend, their cousin, their classmate. But in the end, they have all evaded the Capitol's grasp today, and most of them don't know any of the tributes. They can watch the Games without having any stake in it. Unless, of course, they've placed their bets.

The gravity of my situation does not sink in any more than it did on stage. I can barely think of myself, either out of concern for my family or for fear of what I would imagine, I don't know. My mind finally races with thoughts of what the next few weeks would hold. By this time next week, I could be dead. But I don't think I could panic if I tried. I'm sure every kid in the districts has imagined how they would feel if they were selected, and I am no exception. I suppose I had always thought I would be terrified. But I don't feel anything anymore. My heart knows it won't be pounding for much longer, so it's making every moment count as it threatens to burst from my chest. But my brain can't, or won't, realize my mortality, my imminent death. It won't sink in.

The door swings open and my mother comes in. She presses her fingers to her lips, trying not to cry. She seems rooted to the floor, so I come over to her and hold her as she finally weeps. I run my hand up and down her back like I did late at night for months after my father died, when thoughts of him overwhelmed her and kept her from her bed. I whisper, "Mom, don't cry. I'll fight to come back."

I was hoping to comfort her, but my words have the opposite effect and she begins to sob. She knows I'll risk being killed. She knows I'll likely have to kill kids myself to survive. It's not as if she hadn't seen a few of her own students do the same over the years. Her situation is unique in that nearly every year since she's been a teacher, she watches a present or former die on the television. If it was enough to make her cry then, I fear what it will do to her now. She knows the conditions of the arenas and that since this year is a Quell, it's only that much more unpredictable. I feel stupid for saying anything, so I keep my mouth shut.

Eventually, my mother calms herself down enough to step back and put a hand on my cheek, "You know I'll always love you no matter what. Do… Do what you need to do."

I nod, "I love you too, mom. I'll try to find a way back home."

The peacekeepers let us know our time is up and my mother saves her tears as she gives me another long embrace, "I never wanted to have to let you go." The peacekeepers have to pull us apart. We shout our I-love-you's at each other until the peacekeepers take her away.

I hear her cry again behind the closed door. A moment later, Leila enters. Her eyes are red and puffy, but now she's composed. She gives me a hard, almost accusing look and says, "You have to come back to me, Haymitch."

"That's the plan."

She stands her ground. Neither of us is sure what to do. Both of us are afraid that as soon as she leaves this room, we'll have seen the last of each other, our future erased. But I know our time together is running short, so I go to her and brush a thumb over her cheek, wiping away the tears that had managed to escape her. She leans into my touch. I feel the warmth and smoothness of her skin on mine and I try hard to save it to memory. I don't want to forget how she feels.

The thought scares me, and I want nothing more than to run away with Leila right this minute, but it's too late to try. Where would we go, anyway? District 12 is a cage, a prison. So I do the next best thing. I sit us down in one of the dusty, plush couches, reach in my pocket and present Leila with my wooden token. Her eyes widen. She knows what it means to me. So when I plant it in her hand, she looks at me in confusion. I close her fingers around it and say, "Keep it. To remind you I'll come back. And when I do, if you'll let me, I'll marry you. I love you, Leila."

She's shocked for a moment, but then she starts to cry again. They aren't happy tears. She asks, "Why are you doing this?"

Now I'm the one who's shocked. I know we're young, but I was sure she would at least be somewhat happy. We love each other, after all, I know that much. "What do you mean?"

Leila rests her forehead on my chest and whimpers, "You know I love you. But you're making it that much harder to let you go if you don't come back."

I had intended for my proposal to be something to lift Leila's spirits and maybe even give me something to look forward to while I'm in the arena. But she could only see that the odds of us being together again are miserable. And I suppose she's right to think that way, for her sake. I can't blame her. But it hurts, nevertheless, that she'd ever want to let me go. It's selfish and stupid, I know, but at least while I'm still alive, I don't want to imagine that we wouldn't always be together.

Finally, she says, "I'll marry you. So you have to come back to me. Don't make me live without you."

I smile, "Now I've really got something to fight for." I pull her in for a kiss and suddenly I feel as if all is not lost. Sure, it's a long shot, but I don't even think about that. All I have to do is make it back home. It sounds easy when the goal of the challenge ahead is to marry the girl of my dreams.

Leila pulls away first and pulls a green ribbon from her hair, "Now that I have your token, I don't want you going into the arena without something from home. Something to remind you of what you've got to come back to."

She ties the ribbon around my wrist and kisses it. She blushes the way she does when she gets embarrassed and she smiles, "Now you can always carry a kiss from me with you."

I smile at the thick coat of cheese that covered her words. Sure, we were romantics, but we rarely got this sappy. But I suppose this is a special occasion. To cheer her up, I joke and point to my neck, "Could you put another one here?"

She actually laughs and I decide to store that to memory too. And she obliges, planting a soft kiss near my collarbone.

The peacekeepers come in announcing our time is up. We both seem to panic in this moment, but before I can say anything, Leila says, "No goodbyes. I'll see you again when you're a victor."

I say, "I'll think of you."

As she turns to leave, holding in the tears in her eyes, she playfully snaps, "You'd better!"

I remember how much I love her as the door closes, and I already miss her more than I can bear. I can hear her breaking down when the door opens again and Elias enters the room. His face is pale and he looks like he's about to be sick when he mutters, "It's weird being back in here."

That's right. He had been here to see off his best friend two years ago. The boy never made it back home.

He's a little shaky, so I sit him down. We sit in silence for a moment until he says, "You don't have to worry about us back at home. I'll take care of mom. We'll manage. You just worry about... Just stay focused in there. And win. I don't care what you have to do," his voice cracks, "just get home."

He curls up and clutches his sides. I rub his back and said, "It's okay, Eli."

He looks back up at me, his eyes red as he nearly shouts, "Why are you trying to be strong for me? Is it just me, or is this whole thing terrifying?"

I suppose he's right. It should be terrifying, but I don't want to think about it. I don't want to panic if I can help it. The Games have already begun, and there is no time to get upset when a camera could be around the corner. They could be filming this. They don't usually air the tribute's last meetings with people from home, but then again, this is a Quell. For all I know, they could have decided to bend the rules.

Elias shakes his head, "It's just not fair." He wipes his eyes and says, "You know, I always tease and pick fights with you. But I always looked up to you too. I mean, you're my big brother. And I don't say it enough, but I love you."

He should have said that we never say that to each other. We would never verbally come out and say that we loved each other. It was just that we always knew. But hearing him say it was the only thing that actually brought a tear to my eye all day. I say "Hey, I love you too, but what are you getting all serious for?"

Elias gives me a wry smile and we just hug each other so we won't see the other crying. I hear Elias sniff and I choke out, "You big crybaby."

Elias catches the break in my voice and says, "You're the crybaby."

After a moment he says, "You're the toughest, smartest guy I know. Maybe you can do it. Maybe you can make it back."

I want to believe him. But the arena itself can be incredibly dangerous. Poison, cold, wildlife, traps; they're all waiting to take the lives of tributes that aren't lost in bloodshed. And there are some kids from the other districts who train their whole lives for the Games. I could easily be wiped out if the Careers team up and hunt me down. But I remember my promise to Leila, and I make a mental note to size up my competition in the Capitol and plan a strategy for the arena.

I reply, "You know I'll try."

We part and we feel awkward as we wipe away our tears. And then I remember something that I use to ease the tension, "Oh yeah, Eli, I'm getting married."

Elias' eyebrows shoot up, "What?"

I smirk, "Well, yeah. After the Games."

Elias gives me a weak smile, "I'm glad." I can tell he doesn't want to be too happy for me. To get his hopes up knowing I could be dead next week isn't something he wants to do.

I say, "I forgot to mention it to Leila, but do you mind making sure this stays on the down low. I don't want any Capitol cameras at my wedding in the Victor's Village."

I see Elias is finally warmed up a little by this as says, "Sure thing. Although, you know mom. She'll want to announce it in the square. So will Leila."

"Well, I was hoping you'd stop them from doing that."

He grins, "I'd be honored."

The peacekeepers enter to take Elias away and I'm suddenly overwhelmed. My little brother. This could be the last time I see him. I grab his hands and I know the words are empty when I say them, but I'm so desperate to reassure him, to reassure myself when I shout, "I'll be back! I promise! I'll be back!"

He doesn't respond except with an iron-grip on my hands. The peacekeepers have to pry us apart.

And he's gone.

And then, so am I. More peacekeepers enter through another door and lead me through a maze of hallways until I'm in a car. We're split into two cars; the girls in one and the boys in the other. The boy doesn't say a word and neither do I. We arrive at the train station, which I've only seen in passing. Nobody can go near the trains or the tracks without authorization. Only peacekeepers and those who work to load coal and unload various shipments from the freight cars have that. And tributes, of course.

We board a sleek, silver train, unlike the rusty metal freights that usually pull in, which starts rolling as soon as we're inside. The other tributes wander off with Valera, but I stand at the door, staring through the window at District 12. The sun is just setting and I can see the dusty haze over the Seam. It may not be the greatest. I may have been hungry and lived in poverty my entire life. But it's still home.

I think of the people I've left behind. My family, as well as Leila and her father and maybe a few neighbors are probably gathering already to mourn my absence. I'm pretty sure most of them are convinced I won't be back. But as I see the lights flickering on in the houses as the sun blazes in an orange haze of clouds above the mountains, I'm determined to come back. I made a promise. And I'll be back to marry the girl I love. That's that.


	3. Chapter 3

I stare at District 12 until it disappears behind trees as the train cuts into a forest. I miss it already and wonder if I'll be lucky enough to see it again. But considering how lucky I was to be chosen as a tribute, I know luck won't help me win these Games. I rub my eyes in an effort to hold back the tears that are fighting to get out. Sorrow and fear bubble up inside of me and I almost want to scream.

Valera, my escort, finds me and her attitude has suddenly become the opposite of her on-stage persona. She scowls, "What is with all the kids from 12? Didn't you hear me calling you? Dinner's being served. Follow me."

I'm taken aback. For as long as I can remember, Valera has been the escort for District 12's tributes. And she's always bright and bubbly on television. I'm too shocked and distracted to snap back at her, even as she mutters insults just within earshot while she leads me down the narrow corridor and slides open the door to a large dining car.

It's fancier than anything I'm used to. The walls are paneled and thick curtains frame the windows. Crystalline chandeliers shine brilliantly from the ceiling. An ornate wooden table sits in the middle of the room, surrounded by high-backed chairs and laden with silver platters and glass pitchers gilded with golden accents. It's impressive, but I figure it doesn't hold a candle to the Capitol's extravagance.

The smell in the air makes my mouth water. The other tributes are already seated. We all seem to have puffy eyes. The other male tribute is eating rolls whole. But the young girl, who looks to be from the Seam, seems to be too hesitant to touch any of the food. It's understandable. Everyone in the Seam has to be strict about rationing food. She's probably just worried that this is too good to be true and she'll be punished for taking anything. I'd probably feel the same way, except I can't resist the smell. It beckons me to the table.

I sit beside the male tribute and am immediately presented with a hot dish of mashed potatoes and a thick cut of steak topped with a creamy sauce and steamed vegetables. I almost lose control like the guy beside me, but I instead grab a spoon and shovel down mouthfuls of the potatoes. It is scalding, but the taste is unbelievable.

I take another glance at the other tributes. The other boy I recognize from school. But he's one year ahead of me, so we never had a reason to meet and I don't really know much about him. The older girl is my age, and I can't quite remember her name, maybe Molly, or something. We shared a few classes back when we were little, but I don't recognize her from any of my classes this past year. She looks like she could be from the Seam, but I don't remember seeing her there before, and she was usually only seen with girls from the merchant area. And the little girl I've never noticed before the reaping.

I grab a few jelly-filled rolls, scoops of diced fruits, and wash it all down with orange juice. All of these foods are considered delicacies or are impossible to obtain in District 12. It's gone before I know it, and I'm about to ask for seconds when my plate is replaced with a huge dish of ice cream drizzled with chocolate sauce. I only recognize it from television, but I'd never eaten it before. I had imagined it was like snow, but sweeter, of course. I carve out a giant scoop and eat it, savoring the chocolate, vanilla and strawberry flavors melting in my mouth. It's better than anything I'd ever tasted, and I can't help but slurp down bite after frozen bite until a searing pain jolts through my head.

I press my hands up to my temple and Valera rolls her eyes, "For once, I wish I could just get some kids who weren't so slow." The other male tribute was doing the same as me, teeth clenched together in pain. I curse Valera under my breath and wait for the pain to pass before taking smaller bites of my ice cream. It's still delicious and too good to pass up.

Valera speaks up, "Well, I'm sure you all know you won't have a mentor this year. You're on your own."

My heart sinks. Before Valera can continue, the older girl interrupts, "What? Then what are we supposed to do about sponsors? You're not going to help us in the arena?"

Valera scoffs, "I'll do no such thing. That's not an escort's job."

I ask, "Then what good are you to us?"

Valera scowls at me, "As tributes, your schedules will be incredibly hectic before you enter the arena. Ceremonies, interviews, make up, training; I'll be there to take you to all of your appointments and make sure you don't screw them up."

I mutter, "Sounds pretty pointless."

Before Valera can snap at me, the boy asks, "How are we expected to do well in the arena without a mentor to guide us?"

Valera huffs, "You all clearly haven't been paying any attention at all to the last ten Games. None of your district's tributes had a mentor, and neither will you. District 10 has the same problem this year."

The older girl asks, "There's no alternative system in place to help tributes without a mentor? Nothing at all?"

"No. Each district has to earn their victors, and in turn, mentors for their future tributes."

I didn't realize we wouldn't have any sort of mentor, and I hadn't factored that into my chance of survival. A mentor is an invaluable resource in the Games. They guide their tributes through the events leading up to the Games and give advice. But more importantly, they are the ones who line up sponsors, track us in the arena, and can send us items we may desperately need for our survival. In almost every Games, the actions of the mentor have played a key role in the survival of that year's victor. I didn't think my chances could get any worse, and yet, they just did.

I try to wave the thought from my mind. There's no use worrying about it since it won't change anything. I especially need a clear mind now. I can only depend on myself.

Valera continues sternly, "Now, once you're in the arena, you're out of my hair. But as long as you're in the Capitol, you're under my watch, and you will present yourselves properly." She tells us we'll arrive in the Capitol in the morning and she goes on about the ceremonies and interviews to come, but I tune her out. I need a break from all of this stress while I can still get one. And I'm about ready to hurl up all the food I've eaten. I don't remember a day in my life when I've had more food than I needed, let alone a day I was full to bursting. More often than not, especially after my father passed, I'd gone to bed hungry. My stomach, not used to the quantity of food I just stuffed myself with, is threatening to push it all back up.

I'm distracted by Valera snapping again, this time at the little girl. She sneers, "Don't bite your fingernails! Your prep team will have a fit. Ugh, such a filthy habit, and with all of that dirt under those nails." The girl immediately hides her hands under the table and hangs her head.

The male tribute says firmly, "That's enough. Leave her alone."

Valera narrows her eyes and slams her folders shut, "Fine. But starting tomorrow, you're all going by my rules!" She stuffs her papers back into her flourescent briefcase and marches out of the room, fuming.

Attendants begin clearing the table and show us off to our rooms. My room is softly lit and filled with plush furniture. I sit on the bed and I'm surprised at how soft it is. I can't help falling back into it and relaxing. I kick off my shoes and I feel so exhausted. I blame it on the rich food.

It feels like I've been away from home for weeks already. I raise my arm over my head and stare at the green ribbon around my wrist. And I feel doomed.

I bring my arm over my eyes, blocking my view of everything as horrible thoughts finally break free from denial and overwhelm me. I feel certain that I'll never come home. I'm a dead man already. All of the confidence I had mustered earlier is long gone. What chance do I have, really? I'm just some scrawny kid from the Seam. Sure, there'll be other kids like me in the arena who I could probably outlast, but there are some who have prepared for this for years while I avoided it for just as long. And I won't stand a chance against them.

I feel tears coming and I don't bother to hold them back. In a week, I'll be walking into the arena where I will die for any number of reasons. I could be poisoned. I could freeze to death, or burn. I could be ripped apart by wild muttations or brutally murdered by an equally wild tribute. The graphic images of previous Games flicker through my consciousness. The blood, the wounds, the nasty effects of poison and infection. The weapons embedded in flesh, the unnatural positions of broken arms and legs, the cold, purple skin, the raw burns, the thirst, the hunger. Which fate will be mine, I wonder?

The possibilities are endless, but one thing is certain; in the arena, every death is horrible. They're all opportunities for the Capitol to put on a good show. When I die, it will be televised across the nation. I'll be featured in my own small segment, if I make it far enough. But I'll be forgotten, outshone by the victor who won't be me. My mother and brother will watch me get run through with a knife or blown to bits by some gamemaker-generated explosion. So will Leila.

I mourn them as if they're the ones who have died and left me forever. What's the difference, anyway? I'll never see them again. I miss my family. I feel like a child again. I want nothing more than for my mother to hold me right now, to comfort me like she always had during those hard times like when my father died, or when we had to go without dinner for the third night in a row.

And I mourn Leila. My beautiful Leila. I curl up on the bed and can't help the sobs that wrack me. I always knew our future wasn't a guarantee as long as we were eligible to be reaped. But it's unbearable having that uncertainty replaced with impossibility. Before, I at least had hope. Now I have none. I remember Leila laughing behind the sweets shop only this afternoon and I cling to the memory, finding it hard to believe that that was just a few hours ago. I remember the feel of her lips, the smell of her hair, her touch on my skin and I struggle to make these memories permanent. I'm terrified to forget anything. I replay our meeting today over and over again in my head, already panicking because I can't remember every last detail.

Suddenly, I get up and I'm furious. I yank sheets off the bed, fling lamps off of the bedside tables, vases off of the dresser. I let myself be selfish in this moment and curse every other boy in District 12. Why me? My name was among thousands of others, so why was I picked? Why couldn't someone else's name have been drawn? Instead, one of them will have Leila someday. They'll marry her, they'll live with her, they'll raise their children together while I'll be dead in the ground. I envy every last one of them for even having the chance to catch a glimpse of Leila on the street, in the market or at school. I hate them for it.

And I hate the Capitol. Why was I chosen? Why the hell does anybody's name have to be drawn at all? Why the hell do we have these Games? I know the Capitol's sorry excuse. It's punishment for the rebellion, a threat to remind the Districts not to try anything like it again. But the Capitol goes so low as to have children kill each other for sport. It's not just punishment; they've turned it into a public spectacle. It's considered entertainment. It disgusts me and I hate that I've been dragged into it. I've become a tool for the Capitol to manipulate the masses. I'm disposable. The life I want, it doesn't matter to them as long as they get what they want out of me.

All of these rebellious thoughts had bubbled in the back of my mind for years, and I had ignored them since getting worked up wouldn't have done me any good. But now they awaken in me and pour into my mind, filling my arms and legs and I strike at anything within reach. This is my act of rebellion, but it's so completely pathetic. It's too little, too late. Flailing around alone at night in a train cabin isn't going to do anything. Nobody in charge is going to suddenly decide to put a stop to the Games. But what else can I do?

A wave of nausea hits me and the fight drains out of me. I run to the bathroom and empty myself of the rich foods my stomach rejected. I drag my feet back into the bedroom, pull a blanket up from the floor and collapse on the bed, taking cover in the warmth of the sheets. I'm exhausted. I can't even cry anymore. It won't help me anyway. Nothing will. I hate feeling so weak and defenseless, so defeated. I just want to lay here and drift away. I'd rather die here while I still have my solitude instead of an audience. While I can still die with some kind of dignity. I would try it too, but my promise to Leila comes out from the back of my mind. I at least have to try. Even if I'm as good as dead.

I remember my father. I wonder if he can see me now. I wonder what he would have done. He was such a strong man. The years of working the mines had built him like a brick. He could have beaten anybody in a fight if he wanted to, but he was too kind and gentle. He always saw the best in people, and if anybody wronged him, he would have shrugged it off. He would never consider violence as a reasonable reaction to anything.

What would he tell me to do? What would he do if he were in my place? He wouldn't hurt a fly. But then again, he never had any reason to hurt anything. I've only got my life to fight for. Would he tell me to fight for it? Would he tell me that even though I might die anyway, I should kill other kids to try and save myself? I have no idea what he would say. And right now, all I want is his guidance. His assurance. I made a promise. I just want someone to tell me how to keep it in the arena.

The rocking of the train and the soft cloud that is my bed lull me into a state of semi-consciousness. As I fade into sleep I only hope for dreams of home. But they never come. Instead, I'm startled awake by a sharp rapping on the door, having had a short, dreamless sleep. Valera barks, "Come on, now! We've got a lot to do today!"

I groan. I had hoped I would wake up at home, that yesterday's events were only a bad dream. No such luck.

The sun streams in through the window only partially covered by the curtains mostly ripped from the rods. I lie in bed and stare at the morning rays beaming on the mess I made. I don't know how half of the things wound up torn or shattered, and I don't try to remember. From now on, I cannot lose control like that. I must eat, sleep, and breathe the Games if I want to stand a chance.

I mess with the buttons in the shower for a good ten minutes but am awarded with only icy cold water along with many different soaps and shampoos. I jump in anyway. The frigid waters cool my head and jolt me out of my slump. I give myself a glance in the mirror to check if I'm presentable and find that my eyes are still puffy from crying. I start to care about it, but then I don't.

Back in the bedroom, I dig through one of the displaced shelves from the dresser and find a black shirt and grey pants which I slip into before leaving for the dining car. As I shut the door, I feel worried. I completely trashed my room. Would I be punished? I hadn't stopped to think about it. I decide to ignore the thought since there isn't much worse they can do to me at this point.

The smell of frying eggs calls to me. Again, I am last to arrive. The female tributes acknowledge me and continue eating. But the boy keeps a wary eye on me. His room was right next to mine, and I'm sure he couldn't help but notice my extended outburst last night. I sit next to him and begin to shovel down the bacon, eggs and syrupy cakes.

Valera marches in and takes her seat, opening up her hideous purple briefcase containing her notes and agendas. I'm still furious with her for her comments from yesterday, so I don't bother to look at her when she bitterly addresses us, "You kids ought to be on your best behavior. The Capitol will treat you to the best it has. They will scrub the coal out of you and feed you the finest food in all of Panem. So you'd better appreciate it and express that graciously in your interviews."

Her tone is, of course, condescending. She continues to list off what we have to do and we all seem relieved when she leaves. The younger girl had been holding in her tears but she couldn't hold them back anymore. The older girl tries to comfort her, "It's okay. She's dreadful."

The male tribute says, "She's so disconnected. She's ridiculous." He turns to me, "Isn't she?"

I didn't want to speak to the other tributes if I could help it, but I answer, "The worst." I can't bear hearing the little girl helplessly crying so I turn to her and whisper, "Tell you what. At dinner, I'll try to fling some gravy in her hair. Would you like that?"

She can't help but giggle and she shakes her head, "You don't have to." I'm glad to have made her laugh, but at the same time my heart sinks, because it shows just how innocent and young she really is. And the Capitol feels that she belongs in the arena. She wipes her tears away and asks shyly, "What's your name?"

"I'm Haymitch. And you are?"

"I'm Amara."

The other female tribute introduces herself, "My name is Maysilee."

The male tribute follows, "And I'm Pitt."

With the exception of Amara, we all size each other up and Maysilee is the first to bring up what we're all thinking, "We can't be friends."

Pitt is more optimistic, "Maybe not in the arena. But it can't hurt to stick together in the Capitol, can it?"

I shrug, "As long as we don't have to be the ones who kill each other."

Amara is silent. I try to imagine where she is right now. She must know she's the weakest link here. And for that reason, I'm sure she would like some friends, both in the Capitol and the arena.

Pitt makes up our minds for us, "We'll help each other out for now. And in the arena, we can just forget each other."

Maysilee nods, "I agree. If only one can survive, I'd rather it be one of us. Then, at least, things would be better back in 12 for a little while."

Amara is barely audible when she says, "I'd like that."

I figure it's not a bad idea, but I still have my reservations, "And who's to say one of us won't turn on the rest of us? Give us away to the careers or something?"

Pitt says, "Then we'll agree right here not to kill each other. We don't have to team up in the arena. And there'll be plenty of other tributes in there who'll want to finish us off anyway. And if we wind up being the last ones, well, we'll all know each other's secrets, won't we?" Fair enough.

We all ponder this and finally I agree. And everyone else follows. And it feels good. I felt a million miles away before. I still do, but these three represent a slice of home. Maybe I never knew them personally, but we all call the same place home. This journey to the Games doesn't feel quite as lonely anymore. And on top of that, now there will be three less people in the arena out to get me.

Nevertheless, I dismiss myself and head back to my room. I still don't want to get too friendly with any of the tributes. Sure, we won't be killing each other, but I can't afford to mourn anybody and neither can they. It will end up being too distracting in the arena.

My room has already been cleaned up. The broken furniture has been removed, as well as the curtains. But the windows turn black as we barrel through a tunnel. My ears pop in the way they only did on school trips to the mines where we would journey miles into the earth. And just as suddenly as the darkness came, it's replaced by bright sunlight. I'm blinded for a moment, but when my vision clears up, I am stunned.

The train arrives in the Capitol, and I can hardly decide whether to stare in wonder or look away in disgust at the phenomenal extravagance of the buildings, the clothing and the people themselves. Everything seems to radiate the indulgent attitude of the Capitol. The peoples' skin is either dyed, painted, tattooed, or any combination of the three. Their clothes are sparse to combat the heat, made of all different colors and textures. Jewels hang off of their necks, their wrists, their clothes, their hair, even glued onto their faces and pierced through their skin. The buildings are tall, with huge windows with heavy curtains billowing out of them. Even the road was plated with different colors and inlaid with carved golden Capitol seals.

It is truly awesome. But I know all of this is only possible because the Capitol leeches off of the Districts. The rest of us pay the price so that these people can live the dream. The colorful people notice the train and chatter excitedly, eager to watch the tributes inside fight, bleed and starve while they sit in their cushy homes in front of a rich, full meal. They have never known what it is to sacrifice. They have never known true, desperate need.

And I decide that there is nothing beautiful in this city. It's the most disgusting thing I've ever seen.


	4. Chapter 4

We're split up; the girls get dragged away by a babbling, colorful group that is their prep team. Pitt and I get dragged away by our own team to the salon center. After the train arrived in the Capitol early this morning, we were rushed to the Remake Center. The opening ceremonies are tonight, and although we have all day, Valera insists that we all, "need a lot of work." We're stripped down and we're both instantly embarrassed and cover ourselves with our arms, but the team just babbles on like it's nothing, noting how maybe our legs are too skinny or how our chins are too scruffy.

We're separated into different baths where we're scrubbed down from head to toe in scented, milky waters. After a while, I lose my sense of self-consciousness. Nudity seems like a concept these people had never heard of. The bright pink woman scrubbing my shoulders raw with a wiry sponge is not actually wearing any type of shirt, but rather, just big star-shaped stickers decorated with rhinestones that cover her breasts. But to be fair, she seems to be the exception, not the rule; the others on my prep team, although not very modest themselves, are still much more conservatively dressed than she is.

The pink woman instructs me to stay put for a soak. The water drains out and is replaced with fresh, hot water, with a minty aroma. I sink until my nose is just above the water and close my eyes, trying to ignore the team pulling my hands and feet out to file my nails into perfect shapes. As I float in the water, being pampered and transformed, I feel strange. Merely hours ago, I wouldn't have dreamed of being here. Most people tend to only worry about the risk involved in being reaped, but never realize just how the grimy kids from home turn out to look like shiny new pennies on the screen. I suppose I should enjoy every moment of my makeover, seeing as nobody is trying to kill me yet. But the immanence of the terrors in the arena doesn't let me relax.

I try to distract myself. Back home, everybody is returning to their routines, briefly interrupted by yesterday's events. The kids go back to school, the adults return to the mines. Everybody tries their hardest to pretend as if the Games don't exist. But for my family, and the families of the other tributes, the Games are a harsh new reality. My mother would cry every year when her former students were killed. And Leila had never really known anybody in the Games before yesterday.

But Elias is the most familiar with having someone you love reaped. I remember how sick he got a two years ago just knowing his best friend Mason would be in the arena, and when he died in the bloodbath at the Cornucopia, he couldn't bring himself out of bed until the Games were over. He was miserable for weeks, and rightfully so. And seeing him tremble after setting foot in that dusty room in the Justice Building yesterday, I know he's far from forgetting what he's lost. I'm mad at myself for knowing that my death with also follow him, as well as Leila and my mother, haunting them. I don't want to be a ghost to them. I don't want to be the nightmare that jolts them awake at night, making them cry my name to sleep as I've seen Elias on more occasions than I can bear. The Games are already forcing me to make the ultimate sacrifice. I just wish that my loved ones don't have to pay a price as well. It hurts, but I hope they'll forget me quickly and move on.

After I'm scrubbed, moisturized and conditioned, someone slips a fluffy robe over me and I'm ushered back into the salon. Pitt is already there and his exposed skin is almost glowing, it is so pink. I am pulled out of my dark mood and start laughing only to hear him laughing right back. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and realize I am a garish shade of red. We look ridiculous.

Another member of my prep team comes to get me. I think she said her name was Tigris. Her skin isn't tinted, but she has black, exotic stripes tattooed across her cheeks, and her eyes are bright yellow with slit pupils, like a cat. She lays me down on a cold metal table and has me open up my robe. She reaches over to a pot with what looks like honey in it, dips a flat wooden stick into it and pulls it back out with a big dollop of the goop. She murmurs with the hint of a purr, "It's a little hot, kitten."

Tigris smears the glaze across my now-pink chest and it's scalding. I watch her talon-like nails graze over me as she presses a gauzy fabric over the goop. I wonder what she's doing when I hear Pitt scream at a pitch I didn't know he could produce. His stylist holds up a strip of fabric just like the one on my chest, except it's got a bunch of hairs sticking out of it. I put the pieces together, but before I can stop her, Tigris rips my skin off. Or at least, that's what it feels like. Tigris holds up the gauze to show me the hardening wax that took with it the sparse hair I used to have on my chest. I look at my chest and it's an even more violent red than it was before, if that's possible. Tigris is about to smear more of the goop on me and I shout at her, "What do you think you're doing!"

Tigris scrunches her nose and bares her pointed teeth as she hisses at me, and I'm so startled by it that she manages to get the hot slime on me. She digs her claws into the raw part of my chest so I have to sink back onto the table and she repeats the painful process one more time. I cry out involuntarily, but Tigris smiles, "That's all, kitten. You're all done with the waxing. Now for the face."

She picks up something that looks like a gun, except that it's plastic and has a wider barrel, and she presses it against my cheek. I hear a click, and then feel a hot, tingling sensation in my skin. Tigris continues this onto the other cheek, my chin and above my lip. I feel the skin and it's smooth and soft, without even a trace of stubble. I asked, "Why couldn't you have used this on my chest?"

Tigris purrs, "We're not supposed to use that machine directly over your vital organs, kitten. Too much radiation." For the rest of my makeover, I'm worried that everything they use on me could someday be what kills me.

Pitt and I are made to sit in front of mirrors as the team works on our hair when he says, "I think I've seen you around before all this. Are you on the track team?"

"I was."

"I thought so. My kid sisters run too, so I've been to a few of the races. You placed in the competition last year, didn't you?"

When I speak, it's as if I'm describing somebody else, "Yeah, but I rolled my ankle the day before so I wasn't at my best." My life before the reaping is so foreign now. It's like it meant nothing. Like everything was leading up to this moment, to this new life of mine. The rest of my life was a distraction from my inevitable fate, it seems. I mentally scold myself for being so glum again and I ask Pitt, "Were you on any teams?"

Pitt sighs, "Not unless you count chess club. I'm starting to regret it though. It won't do me any good in the arena."

I hadn't really thought I'd have better chances than anybody else in these Games. But it seems like I've already got an upper hand. I suppose I could outrun most of the other tributes, unless the careers are skilled runners too. Then I feel bad for Pitt, who has no survival skills, even compared to me. His best bet is to use his stature to intimidate others. But that can only help him for so long.

Valera pops in now and then to criticize me and Pitt, as well as to prep us on the ceremonies tonight. When it's all over, my prep team puts me in front of a mirror and I look the same, only somehow better. Cleaner, brighter, more attractive. Enhanced by the Capitol's makeover magic.

Our stylist is a stiff woman with a surgically-chiseled face who enters the room on a loud pair of high-heeled shoes and looks me up and down. She wears what looks like a shimmering, silky trash bag for a dress and her hair (or, more likely, her wig) was cut in a perfect, white bob. I can't remember her name, but she has a reputation for being bitter. She was humiliated during her first year as a Games stylist only a couple of years ago when her male tribute tripped over the material of her female tribute's flowing black gown and ended up ripping it off. Commentators were claiming she could be the one to finally bring District 12's tributes to the forefront of fashion until the nudity scandal drowned out her debut and forever clouded her success. I always felt she took it out on her tributes after that, and my belief is confirmed when she hands yellow hard hats with a few scraps of fabric in it to me and Pitt. She takes a puff from a sweet-smelling cigarette and wheezes, "Get dressed."

I slip into something I'd much rather see on my girlfriend and put on the hard hat. The stylist clicks on the bright headlamp with a flourish, as if exhibiting her creative genius, and steps out. Somehow, I feel more exposed than when I was naked, and the beacon of light coming from my head only makes me feel as if I'm commanding the attention of everybody within a five-mile radius. I'm incredibly relieved when the stylist comes back and tosses us each a pair of bright yellow mining pants. They are baggy and held up by elastic suspenders and they are absolutely revolting. But I'm grateful for the coverage it provides me.

The team dusts us with glittering black powder, coats our eyelids with heavy layers of eyeliner, gives us pick axes and puts us in big black boots. Pitt gives me a sheepish look and I shrug back at him. The fact that we're both suffering through this humiliation together is somehow comforting. But then I remember I shouldn't get too friendly, and I avoid further eye contact with him.

We're taken downstairs where horses and chariots are waiting. I can hear the roar of a crowd outside, interrupted by a muffled, booming voice, no doubt the commentators predicting what the stylists have come up with this year.

Other tributes stream in, and the sheer numbers finally sink in. Tribute after tribute files in one after the other with no end in sight. With a few exceptions, most are in hideously garish costumes. The District 10 tributes come in wearing cow bells, District 4 wears nets, District 7 wears tiny silken leaves over their privates. Most of them are older, which makes sense, but there are also quite a few kids that look to be under 15 years old.

Maysilee and Amara arrive after we do. Maysilee is nearly nude, with the exception of a tiny bikini bottom and tiny black triangles of bejeweled fabric strung over her breasts. I'm relieved that Amara isn't so exposed. I figure the look her stylist went for was an actual sliver of coal, as she's wearing a black dress and her dark hair is fluffed around her face. My only complaint is that, because we're in the Capitol, she still had to show some skin, so the belly and back of her dress are nearly nonexistent and her skin is covered in the same dust that covers all of us.

I suppress the urge to roll my eyes when I get what the stylists were going for. The boys are the miners and the girls are the coal. How original. I wonder how they can make a career out of being creative when they don't have an ounce of art in their bones. Even I could design better costumes. But I remind myself that I'm in the Capitol, and I shouldn't be surprised.

The stylists push us onto the chariot, Pitt and I on the sides with the girls in between us. They play around with our poses, having Pitt and I cross our picks in front of the girls or having Maysilee stick her chest out while the rest of us just sink into the background. While I had never wanted Leila to be a tribute simply because of the risk of death, I now realize I would have many, many more objections to her being chosen. I picture her in Maysilee's place and suddenly feel a surge of empathy for Maysilee.

Finally, drums roll and the doors are opened. The audience roars and I'm overwhelmed by the mania. Amara is on the verge of tears and I see Pitt crouch down to grab her hand as he said to her seriously, "Listen, you've got to be strong right now. You don't want to let the other tributes see you break down." Amara nods and Pitt gets back up, but doesn't let go of her hand.

District 1 is pulled out first in their glimmering outfits. The luxury district. They never have a problem gaining the favor of the audience since they're usually adorned with all of the things Capitol people love. Amethysts, rubies, sapphires, and emeralds; each tribute gets their own colored gems which they are covered in from head to toe. All of them seem to be over 16, and each of them, even the girls, are covered in rippling muscles, and they stand tall, effectively intimidating everybody in sight, tribute or not. They're followed by District 2 and so on. Our chariot creaks forward every time another one goes into the streets. I suddenly feel anxious, and I keep a tight grip on my axe with my slippery hands. I feel sweaty and I hope I don't make streaks in the powder on my skin.

Before I know it, we're in the street. The audience doesn't cheer for us quite as much as they had cheered for the first four or five districts, but it's still powerful. I can't help but notice a collective chuckle pass through the crowd, no doubt directed at our horrible costumes. Huge screens air our entrance. Pitt seems steeled, and I surprise myself when I notice I look the same, despite the nervousness threatening to show itself. Maysilee, despite her near-nudity, seems to command respect with her hard gaze. And it seems to rub off a little on Amara who holds her head up high. Pitt is still holding her hand and I can't help but feel that that is attributing to her sudden confidence as well. We may not be the toughest looking tributes, but I didn't think we'd seem so confident.

We're paraded down the street, through avenues lit up with string lights of all different colors, and people cheer not only from the stands, but from balconies hundreds of feet in the air. The chariot rounds the city circle and stops in front of the Presidential mansion. President Snow makes an appearance on his balcony and starts to give his opening speech, but I only pay attention to the screens. District 1 caught the most attention tonight, stealing up most of the screen time, but every now and then, there I am. I'm a different person; with all of the black makeup, I'm just a shadow of my former self, barely recognizable, a character in a gruesome television show.

The opening ceremonies are required viewing in the Districts. Back home, Leila is watching, and I feel guilty for not having her ribbon on my wrist where she can see it. I managed to keep it by tying it on my ankle before I put my boots on. I wasn't about to trust my bird-brained prep team with a ribbon they could easily mistake for a scrap of fabric. To compensate, when the screen shows me next, I turn to find the camera capturing me, and I give it a wink. And I know back home Leila knows, despite the chattering of the audience saying it was a part of the show, that they could've sworn I was looking at them, it was meant for her.

Snow finishes his speech to rounds of applause and we're carted into the Training Center. Valera meets us there, giving us weak praises on how we did. She turns to me and gives me a rare smile, "What you did wasn't planned, but it sure got the audience talking." It seems I'm finally in her favor. Unfortunately for her, I don't really care.

Maysilee crosses her arms over her chest and huffs, "Well, that was pointless, all that parading around for nothing. It's not like we can get sponsors anyway." I regret that I don't have anything to offer her to cover herself up with, as she seems to have become hyper-aware of her exposure.

We head into an elevator with the other tributes. Most of them are also quite naked, which makes me feel less embarrassed about my own attire, but at the same time, the close contact wasn't exactly comfortable with all of that skin, bristling from cold and hostility. We do not speak as the tributes get off at the floor corresponding with their district.

We each get our own rooms which are fancy like everything else here, and it's starting to get boring. The carefully planned designs are lost on me. The marble, the cashmere, the crystals; they're meaningless. I'm used to wood and concrete back where I come from.

I immediately locate the shower and I can only figure out how to get a cold, soapy jet of water to work, but I jump under it anyway. I scrub at my skin with a washcloth and watch the black water swirl down the drain. I can't get all of the glitter off, but without the black powder accentuating my features I feel clean. I stand in the mirror and see myself and I know that it is me, entirely. I have not had fat chopped off of me or implants stuck in me. I have never been dyed or tattooed. I've never been pierced. I've never been made up before tonight. But with the makeup gone, at least I can look at myself and feel honest. And I don't know how many Capitol people can say that.

The thought comforts me a little. These people cannot even be honest with themselves. They have lost sight of who they are and blindly follow trends. They don't know any better. All their lives, they've been told what to love, what to enjoy, what to think. Now, I won't say I've never wanted for more, but I pity these people who don't know how to appreciate simple pleasures, like never going hungry, like never having to worry that the next illness or injury could be what kills you, like having people who love you in your life no matter what you wear or what you look like. These people have money and the latest fashions, the richest food and the best of entertainment. And yet, it's never enough for them. If I had as much as they did, I wouldn't know what to do with it all. They are very lucky people, and they have everything, but what's the point if you can't ever appreciate what you have?

These people are blind to their good fortune. They've never truly needed anything, so they don't know what it's like to live without, despite watching it fervently every year in the Games. They don't know what it's like to be those kids. They can't relate. They don't know how bad it really is.

But at the same time, they are human. They have the capacity to know better, but they choose not to. They would never choose self-sacrifice over the ultimate entertainment. They must think that they are entitled to have these Games, that it is their right to watch lesser people die in the name of good television. They don't bother to learn about the Districts, to imagine what their lives would be like if they were unfortunate enough to be born into them. If they are human, then they consider us to be subhuman, and that the Districts are just farms that produce the food, the jewels, the clothes, and the children sent to slaughter in their Games.

I feel disgusted, knowing that I may very well die a terrible, public death, and these people will get a kick out of watching me leave this earth, maybe screaming in pain or begging for my life. It's just a TV show, right? If I'm going to die, I want it to be honorable. But there's little room for honor in the arena. The Games are designed to bring out the worst in us to maximize ratings. It's a terrible system enjoyed by the ugliest of people and I hate to be a part of it. And while my circumstances are dire, I'm still grateful that I was not born here. I am not one of these monsters.


	5. Chapter 5

"No, no, no. It's a mistake like that that could get you killed!" My instructor snatches the flashcard from my hands and points to it, "See the way they grow in clusters like that? A handful of these, and you'd be delirious, convulsive, even comatose."

I get frustrated as I have hypothetically killed myself for the third time. I grumble, "But they look just like those other berries that you said I could eat!"

I arrived in the training room early this morning with the others. It's the first time I get a look at my competition altogether. Though there are twice as many tributes, the age distribution is about the same as every year. There are a handful of very young kids like Amara, but most of us are my age or older. I suppose that's bad news, but on the bright side, most of them seem as skinny and weak as I am, so I figure we're evenly matched. The careers are the clear threat, as usual.

There were quite a few stations set up about the gigantic gymnasium. I had already covered what I felt to be the most useful ones, from first aid, to close combat, to strength training. But they exhausted me and I wanted to find a calmer station. In viewing previous Games, I knew that enough tributes didn't need any help in getting themselves killed thanks to all of the possibilities of being poisoned in the arena. So I now find myself in the edible plants station, along with Maysilee, who breezes through the lesson with ease. That makes one of us who definitely won't end up poisoning themselves.

The instructor points to the card again, "The purple flowers on this plant should be your warning signal. But keep in mind, the general rule of berries, with some exceptions, is that the brighter and more colorful they are, the more poisonous they may be. And if you're not absolutely certain, you shouldn't take the risk. Arenas are often set up with ambiguous traps like these." She insists on quizzing us again and again until finally I am able to identify most of her poisonous plants.

I grumble as I leave her station. She hardly showed me any plants that were actually edible. At best, I won't poison myself; at worst, I'll starve to death. Maysilee stays behind, but I've got my strength back and I'm eager to find a more useful skill to learn, so I go to the grappling station.

The most fighting I've ever done was wrestling with my brother and the occasional tussle at school. I usually won, but it was mostly luck. So I want to focus on technique. Pitt joins me here and the instructor first teaches us how to bring a battle to the ground. He explains to us that most weaponless fights end up on the ground, so that's where skill really matters. I learn to flip a man on his back with a roll of my shoulder or use his weight against him to throw off his balance. Once that's done, I learn a number of holds that can leave a man crying for release. I even learn ways to get myself out of someone's grasp, simply by pressing against pressure points that inflict incredible pain. The instructor is even impressed with the speed with which I could dodge attacks and inflict my own on others. Pitt and I grapple for a while and I find that I finally feel like I'm good at something. I'm even a little better than Pitt, who finally seems to have some confidence in his survival skills.

The next station I visit is for short-range weapons. When I walk in, I recognize another tribute as being from District 7, the lumber district. She appropriately wields a pair of axes and manages to hack right through a dummy in a powerful, one-handed stroke. I'm immediately intimidated but I try not to show it as she turns and gives me a smirk. The instructor pats her on the back, "Well done, Camellia. That's a fatal strike, right there!" I keep in mind that Camellia is one to watch out for. She struts out of the station and the instructor turns his attention to me, "What can I help you with?"

I browse the rack of weapons and realize I'm not sure how to use anything. I try a number of things. I completely fail at throwing spears and my skill with a bow and arrow so pitiful that I wind up with multiple bruises on my arm from snapping myself with the string and not a single arrow on target. The only weapon I show any inkling of skill in is the knife.

I spar with my instructor for over an hour. He shows me a number of different ways to deflect attacks, or make my own. After learning I had tried the grappling station, he integrates it into my lesson. He puts me in holds that would normally mean my demise, but then instructs me on how to use my knife to attack the open spots on my opponent. We try throwing, but my aim, even with the occasional lucky shot, can hardly count as reliable. Nevertheless, I feel more confident as far as defending myself goes.

Training goes on like this for the next two days. I dabble in a little bit of everything. I discover on the track that I seem to be the fastest runner. I learn to fashion a tourniquet out of rope, vines and other miscellaneous items. As I train, I keep an eye on my opponents. Districts 1, 2 and 4 seem to be the worst enemies, as expected. All of them have deadly talents and are extremely skilled in weaponry. District 7 is not far behind, although, two of their tributes are only 12 years old. The rest of the Districts are filled with tributes like me; malnourished, untrained, and scared.

I avoid everybody at lunchtime, but on the last day, Amara joins me at my end of the table. I have to give her some credit, though. She'd clearly been trying to be just as hard and aloof as the older tributes, but she seems to have reached her limit. She plays around with her food, but she hardly takes a bite. Then she sighs, and I'm reminded of Elias and the way he did the same when he wanted to talk about something bothering him. I almost want to ignore her. I don't want to be any closer to her, but I feel as if I'm being heartless, so I ask, "Something wrong?"

Amara looks up at me with sad eyes, "Everyone here is better than me."

"You must be good at something. Even I wasn't good at anything until training started."

She mumbles, "No. All I can do is run."

I try to cheer her up, "Well, that's all you need. I'm good at that too. I figure if you can outrun the competition, you can keep yourself safe. After all, they can't get you if they don't catch you first."

Amara gives me a wry smile, "I guess you're right." She finally bites up a scoop of creamed corn and asks, "So, you're from the Seam too, right? How old are you?"

"I'm 16."

Amara stares down at her food, "I have a brother who's 16. His name is Arctur. And Tuck is 19." She gasps excitedly and asks, "Do you want to see my token?"

"Sure."

She digs a hand into her pocket and fishes out a shiny black stone the size of a marble, "Tuck found this in the mines the other day. He gave it to me after the reaping." She gets quiet again and fidgets with the stone in her fingers. This time, I ignore her. I don't want to know about her life in the Seam. I don't want to know about her family waiting for her. I'm actually relieved when I can go back to training and distance myself from her again. She's a sweet girl, but that's the problem. It'd be harder to feel sorry for her if she was a brat.

After the third day of training, we have our private sessions. But after seeing over 40 other tributes, the Gamemakers are clearly uninterested in me. Without a partner, I can't show off my grappling skills. I hack at a dummy for a while and toss some sandbags around, but it doesn't spark any interest. The flashiest thing I can offer is throwing knives at a target, and even when I do manage to hit the mark, it's only luck. I have a feeling the Gamemakers don't even notice when I leave. Someone needs to get them off their high horse and take them down a notch. If they're going to send a bunch of kids to their death, the least they can do is to do their job and pay attention to them.

Valera sits with all of us to watch the announcement of our scores over dinner. Pitt manages to score a 7 while I only scrape by with a 4. Maysilee earns a 5 and poor Amara only gets a 2. Valera is clearly displeased, so she demands that we step our game up during our interviews. She tells me, "You don't talk much and you come off as a sarcastic, arrogant child. You may as well play on that in your interviews. But don't be too aggressive. Be charming when you can. You don't want the audience to hate you, or the Gamemakers will only try to please them by getting rid of you sooner rather than later. Got it?"

I keep that in mind when I'm shoved onstage the next evening after a full day with my prep team in a shiny black suit to face the roar of the crowd once again. Caesar Flickerman has been on the Games circuit for only a few years, but he's already made himself a staple of the Games with his chipper personality and witty one-liners. He ushers me into a velvety armchair and waves the cheers down with a wave of his hands. With a flourish, he says, "Well, Haymitch, it's a pleasure to see you this evening. It would appear as though the audience just can't forget you from the opening ceremonies."

The audience cheers again and Caesar, like a genuine entertainer, overdramatically flaps his arms in an effort to quiet them down as I shift in my seat. I'm feeling overwhelmed by the crowd and I'm worried I might freeze. I think of all the earlier Games I had seen and wonder how did all of those tributes do it? I'm terrified that I'll be dead within the week, there are so many other things running through my mind, but now I have to try and get a whole city to like me. I try to shake my nerves away and think back to what Valera said. Be arrogant. Be sarcastic. What comes to mind is the playful banter I would have with Elias on a daily basis, so I try to focus on that when I answer, "What can I say, Caesar? It's not my fault I come off as a charmer. Well, actually, it could be entirely my fault."

Caesar gives a hearty laugh that the audience mimics. If this is all it takes, this may be easier than I expected. These people are predictable and too easy to please, it seems. Caesar smiles, "How about that? A charmer and a comedian!" The crowd laughs again before Caesar continues, "So, Haymitch, what do you think of the Games having one hundred percent more competitors than usual?"

I try to stay in character, which turns out to be much easier than being myself, so I shrug, "I don't see that it makes much difference. They'll still be one hundred percent as stupid as usual, so I figure my odds will be roughly the same."

Caesar chuckles, brushing a loose, dark green curl from his face, "My, my, you may be the most confident tribute I've seen all night!" The audience hollers their agreement and Caesar lets them drag it out before he gets down to a more solemn tone, "Now, in all seriousness, Haymitch, how have you felt about leaving home? Have you got any family or friends you're particularly missing tonight?"

He's got me there. I take my time before I answer. I was fine with putting up this snarky front, but I don't want to reveal anything real to the audience. I catch myself looking back at me from one of the huge screens and I realize I'm making myself look weak by staying silent for so long, so I answer a little more gently than before, "I'm certainly thinking of home, Caesar. There's of course, my mother and my brother who I miss very much. I just hope that they're not worrying too much about me." I look into one of the cameras and say, half jokingly with a pat on my belly, "Don't worry, mom, they're feeding me like a king!" As the audience laughs, I let the humor in my face melt away into a longing smile. My mother is no doubt watching my every move right this moment and I want to show her how much I care without actually verbalizing it.

Caesar asks again, when the audience quiets down, "And do you have any other, ah, relationships? Rumor has it, you've got a girl back home hoping for your safe return."

Damn. Just what I wanted to keep in the dark from the Capitol. I clear my throat and say, "Um, well, that rumor would be true." There is a collective "aww" from the audience and I continue, "Yeah, we've been seeing each other for a while now. She made me promise to come home."

Caesar nods and gives me a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, "No doubt a promise you'll try your hardest to keep?"

I want to turn this interview around. At this rate, I will only come off as some poor little weakling rather than the sarcastic character I've been trying to portray. So to breathe some life back into the interview, I smirk, "Trust me, Caesar. If she thought I had any intention of breaking that promise, I wouldn't even be competing in these Games. She'd have killed me before I even got on the train to the Capitol!"

Caesar and the audience are overcome with laughter and even I can't help but chuckle since it's a pretty accurate description of my little spitfire back home. And I know she knows it too, and I hope we're laughing together right now. But the memory of her stings, and I just want to be there with her right now, hear her laugh one more time. One of the ends of her ribbon sticks out of my cuff, and I hold the smooth fabric between my fingers. It's the closest I'll get to her ever again.

A small light blinks at the edge of the stage and Caesar says, "Well, looks like our time is almost up. One last thing before you go, Haymitch; since this is your last night in the Capitol before the Games, why don't you tell us what you liked best during your stay here? What was the best we had to offer?"

I give what I hope is my most winning smile and say, "That's easy, Caesar. The food, of course."

A buzzer sounds and the audience cheers as Caesar shakes my hand and thanks me for a wonderful interview. Even I feel it went well. At the end of the stage, Valera is waiting with Pitt; he had already finished his interview. Valera says, "Now, the Games begin tomorrow afternoon but the arena is quite far away. Don't go to your rooms tonight. Wait here while the girls finish their interviews. We'll be heading to the train station as soon as they're done."

Already? I had been trying to ignore the immanence of the Games, but now it all starts to sink in. I don't even get to stay another night in the Capitol. I'm being shipped to the fight of my life tonight. I try to come up with a strategy since I'd been avoiding the subject for so long, but the only thing I can think of that would work to my advantage is that I need to keep eating to build my strength. It may be hard to find anything to eat in the arena, so I head straight for a refreshment table behind the heavy stage curtains and stuff my face with cakes, cookies, fruits, gravy, strips of chicken, steak and groosling. I barely notice the taste as I just try to get as much food as I can into my stomach. Pitt seems to catch on to my train of thought and starts to do the same. I don't even care when I catch Capitol escorts and designers not bothering to hide their disgust as grease dribbles from my chin and leaves big, ugly stains on my expensive suit.

I'm full to bursting when Amara and Maysilee are through with their own interviews and we're dragged to the train station in our eveningwear, but not before I stuff a few rolls in my pockets. I keep nibbling despite the painful stretch of my stomach. As the train starts to move, I get even more nervous and chug bubbly juices in the dining car. I remember that in nearly every Games, most tributes were faced with a lack of food or water, and I become paranoid.

I'm sent to my own bedroom compartment and head straight to the bathroom. The urge to vomit is strong, but I fight it. My skin is clammy from sickness or fear, and I jump into a freezing cold shower in my suit. It helps my stomach, but it only exacerbates the trembling in my bones. I scrub my face free of the makeup intended to hide the light smattering of freckles on my cheeks, the evidence of a long, dreamy summer spent in the sun.

I drag myself out of the shower and strip off the heavy suit. My teeth chatter and I regret standing in the icy water for so long. I can't afford to get sick, so I curl up under the thick blankets on the bed. I know I should try to get some sleep, but I can't help but fear what I might find in the arena. Will I be able to find a weapon? On that note, what kinds of things can I expect in the Cornucopia? Will there be shelter? Firewood? How dangerous is the landscape? What kinds of muttations might I have to face? The arenas are always kept top secret until the tributes are released into them, and even then, they are completely unpredictable. On top of that, tributes often surprise the audience with a few tricks up their sleeves, be it an unexpected skill or a never-before-seen tactic that can either benefit them or annihilate their competition. Even if I can trust the word of my fellow District tributes not to harm me, there are still so many others I will have to worry about.

I try to ignore thoughts of home as they'll only make me feel miserable. But instead, I find myself thinking of my mortality, and I feel even worse. My heart pounds in my ears and I wonder how many more times it will beat. I'm awakened to all of my senses, and even in the dark I take in the scent and feel of my pillows, the taste of my dry mouth, the sound of my breathing, the sight of the shadows all around me. In just a few hours, I might not be alive to remember any of this; it won't even be a memory. Everything I sense, everything I think, imagine, feel; it may all come to an end by this time tomorrow.

I wake up when the train screeches to a halt, feeling as if I had only slept for a few minutes. I wished I could have slept more in ignorant bliss. But instead, I must come to terms that the day I've dreaded is finally here. The Quarter Quell begins today.


	6. Chapter 6

Peacekeepers lead me to my launch pod. This morning, I arrived in an underground facility, no doubt, beneath the arena. There was a brief breakfast, followed by my last meeting with my prep team, and an early lunch. Once again, I ate and drank more than I probably should have. But immediately afterwards, I was split up from everybody. Pitt, Maysilee, and Amara were all led away by their own pairs of peacekeepers to their own pods.

My outfit consists of loose-fitting green cargo pants, a matching green water-repellant jacket, a brown T-shirt, boots, and a belt. There's a small patch with the number 12 on the sleeve of my jacket. I haven't seen District numbers on tributes in previous Games, but I wouldn't put it past the Capitol to label the tributes this year since there's so many of us. I can't really guess much about the arena from my attire except that there might be rain. I keep in mind that it could be a source of water if I don't find anything else in the arena.

I'm left in my launch room to wait. I sit impatiently for a few minutes, but my heart is racing and I'm trembling from anticipation. The reality of it all is beginning to sink in. I want to scream. But I remind myself that in just a few moments, I'll be in the arena where my life will be on the line. Screaming would be pointless. So I decide to warm up, as if I were preparing for a race. I stretch my leg and count out ten seconds before stretching the other. Before long, I close my eyes and imagine myself in the field behind the school, sitting on the grass with the rest of my team. My routine comes back to me and it almost feels like my biggest worry is whether I can win the race. It's calming.

I try to pull everything into the launch room. The crunch of the thirsty turf, parched from weeks in the hot sun that made my skin tingle and my tongue dry. The sound of the collective pounding of feet on the earth, pounded flat from decades of teens running around and around in circles. The bugs buzzing and whirring around our ears. The screeches of the younger students getting out of school and playing. The warm summer breeze that blew through my hair. Practice was when I felt the most free. Not even in the physical sense, but the running made me drop my heavy feelings and see things clearly, made me capable of cutting myself loose from everything. And yet, that tall fence, 'protecting' us from the forest, was always present in the background.

My daydream is interrupted when my routine is cut off. After the stretches, we usually jog for a mile or two before going on to sprints and jumps and whatever else. The launch room can't be more than ten square feet. I try to maintain the calm I managed to draw out of my memory. But now when I try to go back to the field, the fence is all I can see, getting smaller and smaller until I'm back in the launch room, trapped. Nevertheless, I run the routine again and again to limber up. I may as well use my last safe moments wisely.

The peacekeepers come back into the room and have me stand on a metal plate on the ground. One of them pulls out a syringe and sticks the needle deep into my arm, inserting my tracker. Then, a clear tube comes down from straight above me and comes around me. The peacekeepers leave and I am alone in this small room, trapped in this tiny glass tube that I can barely fit into. I can hardly control my shaking. This is it. The chance to run is gone now. The only way out is up and into the arena.

Before long, I feel the plate shiver, and it pushes me up. I look up as light shines through a slit that opens up in the ceiling. I look down and the launch room is even smaller than before. And finally, I am in the arena. And I am stunned.

To say that it's beautiful is an understatement. It is breathtaking.

Everything seems to shine here. Ahead of me lies the Cornucopia in the middle of a lush, green meadow that stretches for miles in every direction in a perfect circle. A snow-capped mountain is off in the distance ahead of me, shimmering in the sunlight. Behind me is a waxy green forest with bursts of color on the tops of the impossibly tall trees, in the vines wrapped around them and in the bushes on the ground. The sun is hot but pleasant on my skin, and I close my eyes as I smell a number of fascinating floral aromas that I just can't ignore.

But I snap myself out of my stupor quickly. It's a distraction I can't afford. As much as it calls to me, I ignore the beauty around me. Instead, I scan the arena for more important details as the countdown continues. The 47 other tributes are mostly dazed, as I was. But a small number of them have hard gazes as they survey the scene. The Cornucopia is halfway between me and the forest behind me. I know I'm fast, and I can get there quickly and grab what I can get. But then I would need to sprint the whole mile or two back to the forest or into the mountains to get a head start on the others, and I would be fighting through the rush of tributes trying to get to the Cornucopia, or who may try to steal what I manage to get a hold of. I start to wonder if it'd be better to run straight to the forest to avoid the bloodbath. I notice that most of the other tributes around me are still dumbly entranced by the arena. Five seconds left.

I decide to take the risk. I prepare my stance, careful not to set a foot off of my metal plate, and I take a deep breath. A cannon sounds. The Games have begun.

I dash faster than I ever have in my life. My heart drums in my ears along with the sound of the heavy footfalls from some of the other tributes. I am in the lead and I make it to the Cornucopia. I immediately slip on a large backpack and rush to a pile of weapons and various items, snatching anything in sight, even weapons I know I'm no good at. At least they can't be used against me.

I slip a few knives into my belt, sling a bow around one arm and a length of rope around the other. Other tributes have arrived and I run back towards the forest with a knife in one hand and a spear in the other. There are plenty of other items around that I would love to take with me, but I'd much rather leave with my life.

Some tributes still running to the Cornucopia try to crash into me, hoping to snatch some weapons from me. My spear gets knocked out of my hands in the struggle. I use my grappling training and knock over oncoming tributes with their own weight and speed working against them. Cannons start to blast one after the other. The next could be mine.

I hold my knife ahead of me as I run and slash at the arms and legs of whoever dares to come near me. Before long, I am alone in my mad dash for the trees. I glance behind me and see a few still bodies on the ground, and some other tributes are either following me into the cover of the forest or the rocky terrain of the mountain. There are even a few who are still entranced on their metal plates, and I see one get a spear stabbed through his abdomen. The Cornucopia has been picked through. A few tributes stand their ground, killing others trying to get a hold of something to fight with. No doubt, a Career pack had been established in the past week and they will make sure to guard the remainder of the supplies.

I break the border of the forest and trip over vines, but I keep running. There's a stitch in my side that stabs at me. I had sprinted nearly two miles without a break, and my body commanded me to slow down. I'm down to a quick jog as I tread through the vines and leaves of the forest floor. I don't know if I'm just paranoid or if I'm really hearing footsteps around me everywhere I go. It's hot and I'm sweating buckets, but I don't dare stop to take off my raincoat.

Now I know the arena, and I decide to try to form a strategy with what I know so far. I know there's no going back to the mountain or the Cornucopia, and I decide the forest is my best bet anyway. With the huge hanging leaves and boughs of the trees, it provides countless opportunities to hide. But it's also a good place for my enemies to sneak around in, and I keep the thought in mind. All of the plants here are thick and colorful, heavy with the perfume of their flowers. If I walk carefully enough, I can avoid making any sound, as there aren't any dry twigs or branches around. But again, it's also something my enemies could take advantage of.

I'm exhausted and thirsty after walking for nearly two hours, interrupted by cannon fires that I lost count of, so I take refuge near a pond. It is beautiful, as is everything in this arena, but I stay wary. I sit at the base of a stubby tree with huge purple leaves and decide to take inventory. I have a bow, but I didn't manage to collect any arrows. It wouldn't have done me any good anyway since my aim is so terrible, so I slice the string on the bow to render it useless and hide it under the bushes. I empty the contents of my backpack and I assess what I find. There's a bag of dried beef, another bag of dried fruits, matches, three extra pairs of socks, a washcloth, a small tarp, a bowl and a metal canteen. All of them are valuable, and judging from previous Games I've seen, I got a good haul.

I open the canteen, hoping to wet my tongue, but it's empty. The water from the pond has a manufactured shimmer to it, and I'm worried it might be poisoned, but I'm still thirsty. I go to scoop my hand into it but quickly recoil as my fingertips burn. I'm glad I didn't go face-first when my finger starts to turn a violent shade of red. I use a knife to slice a strip of fabric from the top flap of my backpack and wrap it around my finger since simply exposing it to air made it sting.

I grab a raisin from the bag of dried fruits and suck on it in an attempt to stave off my thirst. I put my canteen away, and I'm still full from lunch, so I save the rest of the food for later. I managed to snag several knives at the Cornucopia, so I wrap two of the blades in rope and stuff them in the bag along with my raincoat and the rest of my gear. I wasn't at all wounded, but I notice a trail of dried blood down my arm and I feel sick. I wipe what I can off with my shirt. I'm pretty sure I didn't kill anybody today, but I may have made it easier for somebody else to finish the job.

I worry about the food. It doesn't seem like much at all. I put on my pack and continue trekking away from the Cornucopia, keeping track of the plants on the way. Of the plants I can identify, all of them are poisonous. All of the others I stay away from. My edible plants instructor's words echo in my head, "If you're not absolutely certain, you shouldn't take the risk. Arenas are often set up with ambiguous traps like these." I'm not sure, but I think she was tipping me off about the toxicity of everything in the arena, and I silently thank her. I notice the purple flowers growing from a plant with clusters of red berries. They were everywhere. I remember my instructor quizzing me on this plant over and over again and I'm relieved that I stopped at this station during my training. I decide to be safe and judge that nothing in this arena is edible.

The sun begins to set and I stop to get some rest. I had been one of the first to the Cornucopia and the first to leave it, so I think it's safe to believe that I'm far from most of the tributes. I start to wonder about the rest of the tributes from 12, but I remind myself that it's not a good idea to dwell on them. For all I know, they could have decided that any pact we made is now void. They could be just as ready to kill me as anybody else in here. I hide under a canopy of leaves and lay out my raincoat. I keep an arm hooked in one of the straps of my bag and a knife in my other hand in case I need to make a quick getaway. The air is humid and warm, and the hum of insects put me to sleep.

I wake up only a few hours later to a tickle on my neck. I open my eyes and I'm amazed. The sun had set, so it was dark, but all of the plants seemed to have a very dim glow around them. There was no need for flashlights or fires since the whole forest is illuminated by its own inherent brilliance. Glowing green butterflies had come out and were fluttering above me. Some had crawled on my arms and face, and I brush away the one that had been walking on my neck. They fly in lazy spirals overhead, eventually coming to rest on the foliage surrounding me. It's beautiful.

I relax for a while longer. There is a low rumble in the sky and I predict a thunder storm. This type of forest only ever existed in the books back at school for me. It's called a rainforest. The only reason I remember it is that it rains all the time in a rainforest, and that's how everything stays so lush. But I suspect a number of the plants here have been enhanced by the Capitol, so I may not be looking at a realistic rainforest, but a close enough version of one. I look forward to the storm since I'm so thirsty and I want to see if the rainwater is safe to drink.

My arms start to itch, so I brush the butterflies away and scratch myself. This only makes them burn. And then I worry. Is it just the plants that are toxic? Or is everything in this arena poisonous? Even the gentle touch of the butterflies? I get up and wave them all away. The itch in my arms continues but I try not to scratch at them because the burn is even worse. I start to walk away from the butterflies, avoiding the risk of brushing up against them again.

But the itch gets worse and worse and I can't help but scratch. My throat starts to burn and I'm especially worried when I notice that I'm shivering, despite the heat. The thunder crashes and rain suddenly pours down. The water intensifies the burns on my skin and I feel strangely dizzy. Now I'm certain that I've been poisoned. Nothing else I've faced today could have provoked these symptoms. I crash to my knees and yank off my backpack. I fumble with the clasp of the bag and rip out my raincoat, shielding myself with it from the rain than burns me. My skin looks fine, despite the deep red scratches I've inflicted on myself, but it still feels like it's melting.

All of a sudden, I find myself on all fours, and I'm vomiting up whatever lunch was left from the train this morning. I heave until there's nothing left and my head is pounding and I'm seriously afraid for my life. I hear screaming and after a while I realize it's me. The pain is unbearable and it's pulling me from the arena. I try hard to stay focused on my surroundings, to remember what is real, but the pain is blinding. So I try to focus on what I do know. I think of Mom and how she'd take care of me when I got sick. Elias and his pranks followed by his not-so-sincere apologies. And Leila with her beautiful smile that she'd give me whenever she saw me.

I cling to my memories of them while this haze threatens to take me over. My insides stab me and my skin feels like a coat of fire, but I just think of Leila, only Leila. But I can't even hold onto that. I'm stuck in a swirl of pain and delirious, disconnected thoughts. I see everybody laughing; Leila, Amara, my mother, Elias and Pitt. Only Maysilee doesn't, since I've never seen her smile before. The thoughts are transformed and I'm running, I run right through the fence behind the school and into the woods that have an ethereal glow. Deer run alongside me, following me as if they know I'm running away from danger, trusting me to lead them away from it even though I feel like the danger is on all sides.

I don't know how long this goes on for, but I'm finally alert enough to find myself curled up on the ground and everything slowly comes back into focus. The pain is still there, but it's dulled down now. Eventually, the rain started to soothe my skin instead of burn it. I crawl under the canopy of leaves to shelter myself from the rain and wait for the shivers to subside.

The rain starts to die down and the thunder quiets. My throat is hoarse, and I'm grateful for the storm as it probably helped to cover up my screaming. Now, instead of the thunder, the anthem booms and the sky lights up. But the canopy of the trees is thick. I'm too exhausted to move from where I sit, so I don't bother to see how many tributes died today. I wonder about the other tributes from 12 again. For all I know, they could be dead. Some Game.

I try not to think about it. I take a few bites of the dried beef in an attempt to recover what I lost when I puked up my lunch. All of the stomach aches from over-stuffing myself for the past week seem like wasted effort. But I'm tired of feeling sorry for myself, so I just zip up my jacket, rest against my backpack and try to get some sleep.

As I drift off, I try to think of a plan. There still had to be a great number of tributes remaining. I don't know how many went into the mountains or how many followed me into the forest. I don't know who managed to get a hold of some weapons or if they are any good at using them. And it's not as if I hadn't noticed that the arena will kill me itself if a tribute doesn't do it first. So how can I avoid both?

I wake up, not feeling quite as refreshed as I had hoped, but at least I've got an idea. Call me crazy, but this arena can't go on forever. It's got to have an edge somewhere. I wonder if any tributes in previous Games had considered this; escaping the arena rather than facing the dangers within. Before now, I suppose I had always thought there were only two ways out of the arena; victory or death. But with the sheer amount of threat I face by staying in the arena, I decide to try to find a way out on foot. Maybe then, I could wait out the Games until everybody finishes each other off. There may even be something I could use.

I put my jacket away again and change my socks, seeing as the ones I was wearing got soaked in the storm. I fix the wet ones onto the outside of my backpack so they could dry. After avoiding certain death thanks to my edible plants training, I'd be an idiot to ignore my first-aid trainer. Wet socks are the quickest way to develop a nasty infection.

I take another small bite of my dried beef and hold it under my tongue. I don't know how long it will last, so I hope the flavor will ward off my appetite for a while. Plus, I'm so thirsty I can't stand it. My lips are cracked and bleeding, and the scratches on my arms and face sting, but I can't find a safe plant to eat around here, let alone one to use as medicine. Dried blood cakes my arm and Leila's ribbon has already been stained a little bit.

At the reminder of her and everyone back home, I remember how certain I was only two days ago that I would not survive. But I'm still alive. I survived the dreaded bloodbath at the Cornucopia. I was almost killed by a few butterflies. In an arena designed to destroy me, I've survived the first day, the deadliest day of the Games, when so many others couldn't. I think back to my poor scores in my private session, Valera's condescending scowl, and my arrogant on-stage persona that only earned laughs instead of serious regard. I tilt my face up towards the streams of morning sunlight breaking through the treetops and say with a smirk, "Bet you didn't think I'd make it this far!"


	7. Chapter 7

A cannon blasts off somewhere in the distance behind me. It's far enough that I don't really need to worry about being pursued by whatever killed that tribute. For two days, I've been walking in the same direction away from the mountain that I could always see peeking through the treetops only to find more and more forest. Five cannons had gone off in that time, but since I didn't keep track of the deaths on day one, I don't have a reliable count on the remaining tributes.

The sun is hot, even under the shade of the trees, and the air is thick with humidity. My jacket has long since been packed away in my bag. The fumes from all of the toxic flowers have left me in a perpetual state of slight dizziness. My stomach constantly grumbles for more food, but I had eaten all of my dried fruit, and I was down to my last two strips of meat. On top of that, my plan to find the edge of arena is proving to be difficult since patches of forest too dense to pass though have forced me off-path to find a way around it, and I'm slowed down by vines that seem to wriggle around in the dirt, tripping me at every other step.

But on the plus side, I learned that the rainwater was indeed safe, so I collected enough in my bowl to refill my canteen and clean my wounds during the nightly thunderstorms. I managed to avoid the green butterflies that seemed to spring up every now and then, and I even escaped a pit of quicksand by jabbing my knife into a tree root and yanking myself out. I really didn't have much to complain about after the first day in the arena. I'm still alive and fairly intact, after all.

In spite of my good luck, I feel even more alert to threat. My days haven't been very eventful, and it's no doubt that the Gamemakers will want to make some good use of me for their footage. I haven't voiced my strategy, nor do I plan to, so to them I must look like some kid just having a nice hike. Definitely not dramatic enough to keep an audience captivated.

I sit to rest and nibble on some beef. Having a knife in hand has already become a habit, since I was certain every rustle of leaves was a tribute launching themselves at me or a Gamemaker-created monster. But I try to hope for the best. From what I remember from previous Games, the Gamemakers can get pretty aggressive. But sometimes it's just to get some action. They don't necessarily aim to kill since they usually want deaths to be caused by tributes killing each other. But drawing a little blood every now and then on their own is a way to bring some action back into a boring tribute. They may even force tributes to run into each other if they really want to start something. Judging from the sheer size of the arena and the cannons sounding intermittently over the last two days, I suspect they've already done just that.

I sigh and lay on my back and the sunlight pounds against my eyelids. This arena is actually very nice, and I could probably have enjoyed it had it not been built only to eliminate me. It sounds alive, with chirps of birds and insects and the rustling of the leaves. My stomach grumbles and I ignore it yet again. But then I hear rumbling that isn't at all related to my hunger.

My eyes snap open and focus, despite the burning sun, and high above me in the branches are dozens of bright red eyes staring down at me and shiny white sets of fangs peeking out from shimmering golden fur.

The creatures collectively shriek and I waste no time snatching up my pack and dashing away as quickly as I can. But the screeching follows me and it's catching up. I take another knife from my belt with my other hand and keep running, but the animals are nipping at my heels and I trip.

They claw and tear at me with their fangs and talons. They look like some version of a squirrel I could only imagine in a nightmare. I stab at them as they rip my arms, my chest and my face. I roll over to trap some of them under me and I slice them up while another drags its talons down my back.

I get up and sprint away, hoping to outrun most of the colony of squirrels. Two of them still cling to me and they claw at my neck and my arms, so I snatch one up and fling it away and I stab the other.

The screeching dies down and I finally allow myself to stop. I inspect my damage and I'm alarmed by the blood gushing down my chest and the paleness of my skin. I rip off my shirt and begin to tear what was left of it into strips. I tie a knot above the gash on my left wrist and use a stick to twist it into a tight tourniquet. The bleeding slows down and I wad up the rest of my shirt into my neck, in which I feel a deep wound. My adrenaline starts to wear off and the wounds start to hurt, but I grit my teeth and bear it as I attempt to clean up the worst of my wounds with nearly all of the water from my canteen.

By sunset, I'm cleaned up but exhausted. The blood loss leaves me weak and anemic, but I try to stay awake and reluctantly eat a whole strip of beef to regain my strength, leaving me only one left to sustain me indefinitely. As the sun sets, the anthem plays and only one face lights up the sky tonight. I vaguely remember him being from District 3. I collect more water as the nightly storm passes over again and I rest. I kiss Leila's ribbon and try to get some sleep.

A shiver in the ground wakes me up just as the sun rises. The leaves rustle violently in the trees and I get up, struggling to keep my balance as the earth shakes beneath me. Suddenly, there's a blast in the distance, much more violent than any cannon. It's followed by even more blasts, and this time, I'm sure they are cannons. Whatever just happened is killing tributes left and right. I'm no good at climbing trees, but I'm desperate to know what's happened, so I manage to shimmy my way up a trunk just far enough to peek through a break in the canopy of leaves.

A dark mushroom cloud is spewing from the blue mountain I had seen on day one. Bright red magma flows down to the base. The ash collapses in hot, heavy mounds back down to earth. I imagine tributes melting or getting buried. I slide back down the tree and don't waste any time. I make my way further away from the volcano, as I had been doing from the start. The remaining tributes are no doubt fleeing full speed in my direction. The ash will soon be covering the meadow and the forest will become the only safe place. Well, safe from the ash.

I want to stay as far away from these tributes as I can, but a thick wall of bushes blocks my way. It's infuriating, since it seemed every step forward I made, these shrubs brought me two steps back. Even putting my jacket back on and trying to crash through them doesn't get me too far. So I briskly walk along the path of the bushes, nibbling on my last strip of beef when I realize I'm being turned back towards the mountain by the bushes. I'm certain that it's taken me miles off track, but the hedges are impossible to break through. It's getting dark, both from the clouds of ash and the setting sun, and I'm not satisfied at all with the progress I've made. So I try one more time to crash through the bushes and I find myself collapsed in a clearing.

My heart jumps into my throat. Across the clearing stands a tribute. With his sleek black hair and tanned body, he's no doubt from District 4. A career. He takes hold of a dagger and shouts, "Guys!"

Others. I scramble to my feet and hold my knife in front of me as the boy charges at me. I deflect his dagger and force him to fall flat when I stick my leg under him and yank his arm so he topples over it. I hear heavy footfalls and shouting coming from beyond the tree line, so I stab the fallen boy in the neck and turn to face the two tributes who come barreling at me.

A cannon blasts as they each grab one of my arms and try to pin me down, but I use the knife in my hand to jab at the back of the boy on my right. He recoils and cries out in pain and I use my now free hand to do the same to the girl on my left. I don't let her retreat and I drive my knife into her stomach and drag it up until her ribs prevent me from cutting further. I can't risk her surviving when I've got another career to deal with.

But then I feel something slam up against my head and I fall back. The other tribute I stabbed in the back had punched me in the temple. He kicks my head, and then the knife out of my hand, and before I can recover he pins my arms under his knees and presses his forearm down on my neck, strangling me. My head trauma makes me incredibly disoriented, but I can make out the same black hair and golden skin as the first boy; he must be one of the other tributes from 4. He's got gauze wrapped around his head and over his eye, and he stares down at me with a mad look in the other. He had gotten a hold of his partner's dagger and raises it above his head. It seems unreal, that I'm about to die. I can hardly wrap my head around the idea. I choke out, "No."

To my surprise, his arm drops away and his dagger lands in the dirt dangerously close to my ear. I wonder why he decided to be merciful and let me live when he goes slack and droops to the side. I shove him off of me and gasp in big gulps of air as he begins to convulse. I'm startled by a cannon blast. The girl had just died. I stare back at the boy writhing on the ground in a cold sweat until he stops moving, and another cannon blasts for him.

I approach the boy to try to find out what came over him. I turn him over and notice a feathered dart stuck in a rapidly swelling red boil in his neck. I snap my head around, searching for the source of the dart, but it's a bad idea. I nearly topple over from dizziness when a rustle comes from the trees in front of me. I have my knife in hand, ready to throw it, when out comes Maysilee, blowgun held away in a sign of peace.

I figure she won't attack me and my hands are shaking so badly and I'm so dizzy I doubt I could even throw my knife within ten feet of her if I tried. I lower my weapon and she comes up to me, "We'd live longer with the two of us."

Shakily, I rasp, "Guess you just proved that." I shudder as I run a hand over my neck. If it wasn't for Maysilee stepping in, it'd have been ripped open. I would be dead, there is no denying that. And I decide I want her on my side. My heart tells me it's a bad idea. We could become friends and it would make it that much harder if one of us dies. Or worse, if by some miracle we wind up being the last ones in the arena, we'd have to turn on each other. But my first real encounter with the tributes was proof enough that I can't do this alone. I should be dead. So I say, "Allies?"

She nods and immediately gets to work on retrieving her dart and collecting the careers' weapons while I stand there, useless, swooning from the blows to my head, still in shock at what had just occurred.

Had things gone differently, I would be the one lying dead on the ground, not the three tributes at my feet. My heart pounds in my ears and my whole body trembles uncontrollably, reminding me that I'm still here, and I haven't lost these Games yet. But then I look down that the dead tributes. Two of them are dead because of me. I killed them. And now I feel removed from the Games, removed from my near-death experience. The circumstance doesn't seem to process in my mind, only the fact that I murdered two people not a moment ago. Two kids like me who just wanted to go home. Because of me, they'll never get to.

I sink to the ground and can't stop staring. The first boy's head is resting in a wide pool of his own blood. The girl's arms lay limp over her abdomen, her organs beginning to slip out. I never really believed I would have been capable of killing anybody else. But here, in explicit brutality, lies the result of my actions. I look at my hands to see blood, still wet and sticky all over them and up my arms. I frantically try to smear as much of it as I can off in the grass. I start to feel dizzy and I'm not sure if it's because of my concussion or my moral violation. I tell myself I killed to protect my life. I was defending myself. They were going to kill me if I didn't kill them first. But a voice in my head keeps asking me if it was worth it. Did the end justify the means?

Maysille brings all of the careers' backpacks over, tossing two in my direction, "Here. Take these and let's move."

I lead the way, still following the bushes in hopes of finding an opening. Looking for something to distract me from my brush with death, I shakily ask, "Where have you been this whole time?"

Maysilee shrugs, "I've been following the careers around. Secretly, of course. They're the only ones who've really trained for the Games, so I figured I'd pick up a few tips from them. But the volcano took out about half of them. Wiped out their stock of supplies too. " I almost want to laugh. I think I may have underestimated Maysilee Donner.

I ask, "How many of them were there?" With so many tributes, I can only imagine how big the careers' pack was.

Maysilee says, "Well, it started off with 12. The ones we just took out split off with one other guy since they wanted the cover of the forest. The rest went off towards the mountain. But one time when I was sneaking some food of theirs while they went hunting for other tributes, one of them caught me. I managed to take her out, but the careers turned on each other, thinking it was one of them that killed her."

"Are you serious?"

Maysilee gives a self-satisfied smirk, "Yeah. Two of them got killed off in the fight and then two of them stayed on the mountain. I followed the other three into the forest, but they spotted me. I almost got an axe in my back last night."

"Lucky you didn't. Then neither of us would be here." I stare at my feet when I mutter, "Thanks for that, helping me out back there."

She shrugs it off and says, "Don't make me regret it." Her stomach grumbles and she groans, "I'm starving."

I ask, "When did you last eat?"

"Two days ago. It's been harder to steal food now that the career packs are so small."

I look her over and realize that she's rather pale. "Stop," I tell her, and I drop the backpacks on the ground. I dig though mine and fish out my packet of dried beef, tossing it to Maysilee, "Eat."

Maysilee says, "We're still competing, you know. You could just let me starve."

I say, "It's the least I can do after you saved me. Besides, didn't you agree that we're allies now?"

She chuckles and devours the food while I browse through the careers' packs. They had medical supplies, including gauze and an antibacterial cream wrapped in a small silver parachute, along with a stock of dried beef and fruits. They have two more water bottles which I shove in my pack along with everything else I find. The dagger I keep in my belt while Maysilee keeps a set of throwing knives.

I ask, "Have you been keeping track of how many tributes are left? I lost count from day one."

"Well, knocking out those careers brings us down to ten."

I shake my head, "Unbelievable. I can't believe we made it this far." Then something bothers me and I can't help but ask, "What about Pitt? And Amara?"

Maysilee frowns, "They didn't make it past the bloodbath."

I feel worse than I thought I would be. I wouldn't have ever called any of us friends, but knowing that we were all in the same boat, that we all called 12 home, it was comforting. Back in 12, my family still has some hope, but their families are already mourning, have been this whole time. I almost feel guilty for still being alive when they lost their lives so early on.

Maysilee interrupts my thoughts, "You don't look so good. Are you okay?" She insists on checking up on me, but there's so much blood on me, it's hard to tell if it's mine or not. And I suppose I could still be in a state of shock, so if anything hurts, I'm not really feeling it. Maysilee discovers an oozing stab wound in my thigh and dabs the medicinal cream on it before wrapping it in gauze. She then treats my head wound as I use the tatters of my shirt and some water to scrub off the dried blood on my arms and chest. She then makes me drink some water and lie down.

I hadn't realized how anemic I was feeling until my strength gradually returns while Maysilee takes inventory of the packs again. She keeps making me eat, despite my concerns about rationing. But eventually, with the exception of the dull throb in my head and leg, I feel fit again. With my strength came a renewed vigor to survive.

So we pack up and I lead us through the forest again, hoping to cover as much ground as possible before sunset. Maysilee asks, "Where are we going?"

I glance back at the shrinking mountain and continue limping in the opposite direction, "You'll see."


	8. Chapter 8

"Haymitch, I'm not moving until you tell me where we're going."

We had been walking all day yesterday and today. Maysilee would always ask where we were going, but I refused to tell her for two reasons. First, she would probably tell me it's a silly idea and refuse to go. Second, I don't want the Gamemakers to know. If they think I'm planning an escape, I'm finished. And I can't help but feel that if they don't know what I'm doing, there will be enough suspense to keep us entertaining enough without their unpleasant interference.

But Maysilee stands her ground as I say, "Just come on. It won't be long now."

"Abernathy, you tell me what your plan is right now. I don't want to be allied with someone who won't even tell me his strategy. How do I know you're not going to try to kill me?"

I groan, "Of course I'm not going to kill you! Just trust me. We have to keep moving forward."

She asks, "Why?"

I explain, "Because it has to end somewhere, right? The arena can't go on forever."

Maysilee ponders this for a while and asks, "What do you expect to find?"

"I don't know. But maybe there's something we can use." She huffs and rolls her eyes and I say, "Are you still coming with me?"

I give her a silly look as I point in the direction I'm headed and she rolls her eyes again, "Ugh, fine!"

And it's no risk to her. I certainly won't turn on her; that is for sure. I would never dream of ending her life, especially after she saved mine. We've collected enough water and food to last us at least two more days. And our wounds have been mostly patched up thanks to the medical items we got from the careers' packs. Maysilee even prepped all of her darts by dipping them into various poisonous berries. We're as ready as we can be for anything.

The arena has gotten more aggressive as more cannons have sounded. The ash from the eruption had sifted through the leaves and the storm the night before turned it all into a sticky black sludge that we had to trudge through, making loud, squelching noises with every step. The muttations run rampant now and it seemed that every hour of the night we were awakening yet another small pack of ravenous squirrels or a particularly fierce fox. But it feels a lot better traveling through this arena when someone has your back, and I know Maysilee feels the same way. We take turns sleeping in the mornings, since our most dangerous encounters happened at night, and we figured two pairs of eyes are better than one in the dark. We are fair when it comes to sharing our food and water. Even though neither of us never has enough to eat, we are still from 12. We know how to be hungry. All in all, we are a good team.

We end up filling up the silence with our own stories. Maysilee even jokes about the arena, saying, "We could be camping!" And now that we're down to the last 8, we remember that this is when they interview the families of the remaining tributes. While we tried to avoid talking about home back in the Capitol, here in the arena we couldn't help but reminisce. I suppose we're both just really homesick. Or we just want something good to distract us from the arena.

I tell her about my family and Leila, I show her Leila's ribbon, and I even tell her about my father. In return, she tells me about her life back home. She has a twin sister, though fraternal, so she is as blonde as Maysilee is brunette. The two of them live with their parents and grandmother above the sweets shop which they own in the merchant's area. It explains why Maysilee seemed so familiar. The peeping old lady who runs the storefront is her grandmother. I must have seen Maysilee from time to time on my way to or from the back of the shop where I would meet with Leila.

Maysilee's mother was originally from the Seam, but after she married her father, she came to live with him. Maysilee's father is the one who gave her her token, a shiny gold mockingjay pin, a family heirloom originating from the Dark Days. She explains to me the significance of the jabberjays in the rebellion and that the mockingjay, to her, represents perseverance, "I feel like I'm a jabberjay. Like I was raised up for some purpose by the Capitol, to be a tribute. And once I've played my part, I'll be useless to them. That's why, if I win, I want to be like a mockingjay. The one they threw away… but who still makes it, in the end."

Right then, we hear a scream not too far away. I'm about to dash the other way when I see Maysilee running towards it. I chase after her, whispering curses at her, "Stupid! What kind of idiot runs towards the sound of screaming?"

We arrive at a clearing and see a boy dragging himself out of an ashy pond. I notice the cloud of green butterflies above him and pull Maysilee back, "Be careful, those things are dangerous."

We watch the boy writhe in the mud. I suppose the butterflies poisoned him and in the same mad desperation that came over me that first day in the arena, he dove into the pond to soothe his burning wounds. But I was right not to touch the glowing water, because it seems as if the boy's skin is melting off in globs of brown and red. It's disturbing and I don't want to watch the rest, so I grab Maysilee by the arm and drag her away, "What were you thinking, stupid?"

Maysille jerks herself from my grasp and continues to scan the area, "Where is it, where is it? Ah!" She puts her hood up close around her face and runs through the cloud of butterflies into the bushes opposite the pond. When she comes back, she's got an extra backpack with her.

I shake my head at her when she gets back to me, "Such a scavenger." She goes to open the bag but I say, "No, let's go. I can't watch this."

We leave the boy behind and his cannon fires. We get back on track before Maysilee searches the bag, "Oh, he's got some more food, a net and… Oh, Haymitch, there's something in here I think you'll really like."

She pulls out a metal tank with a weird-looking gun attached to it by a hose. There's a big red warning sticker with a flame on it, "No way."

I'm incredibly excited and let out a whoop. I hope there's still some juice in the tank when I point the gun towards the bushes and pull the trigger of the flamethrower. A burst of fire explodes from the end and I cackle like a madman as I burn a hole through the bush. Maysilee has to stop me, "Don't get too trigger happy. We may need to use that later on."

For the rest of the afternoon, we keep walking, and I burn the bushes we can't push through. I'm anxious to find the edge, so much so that I don't even care about the smoldering trail I'm leaving behind. And all of my searching seems to be paying off when I see light coming though the next patch of bushes ahead of me. I burn through them and am met with open land.

I step through the bushes onto the expanse of rocky earth lit only by the moon. I hadn't realized how pungent the aroma of the arena was, but the air here is crisp and clean. I walk straight ahead until I reach a cliff about a half mile from the forest. It's a long way down and only jagged rocks wait beneath it. Maysilee sighs, "That's all there is, Haymitch. Let's go back."

I stare down the edge of the cliff, "No, I'm staying here."

She hesitates before she says, "All right. There's only five of us left. May as well say good-bye now, anyway. I don't want it to come down to you and me."

I don't really want to see her go, despite her reasonable arguments. She's my ally, my friend in this hellhole that is the arena. But I know she's right. I want to say good-bye and wish her luck, but the only thing I manage to say is, "Okay."

I hear her walk away moments later. She'd been waiting for something more, maybe. A proper farewell. But as much as I hate to admit it, even to myself, that's just too hard for me to do. Not when it's final. Not when we'll never see the other alive again.

I hate myself for thinking of us as friends, but I feel like that's what we became in the arena. I hate myself for thinking this way when I knew along that it could end like this. I kick a rock over the edge of the cliff and sit on the ground. It's the last of District 12 I'll see in this arena. Pitt and Amara are long gone. Maysilee was the only one in this damn arena who I could trust.

I hear something hit the ground and I jolt around. It was just a rock. It couldn't have come from above me. I almost ignore it, but then I recognize the rock as being the same one I kicked over the ledge.

I get up and search for a bigger rock. I find one about the size of an apple, toss it over the edge of the cliff and wait. I feel like an idiot, waiting for what should be impossible. There's absolutely no way. But a moment later, the same rock flies up, perfectly reversing its trajectory as it lands back in my hand. And I laugh because to cry would be insane, so my mind tells me. This is the edge. If you jump, it throws you right back. There is no escaping this arena after all. But now I know what no other tribute knows. Maybe I can use this to my advantage.

A scream cuts through my train of thought, and it's sickeningly familiar. Without hesitation, I run back into the arena. I crash through the bushes, not more than a few yards from the edge of the arena, and into a clearing.

There is Maysilee, illuminated by the dim glow of the leaves and flowers of the forest. She gazes at me as she falls to the ground, a flock of candy pink birds flapping over her, one having just stabbed through her throat with its long, razor-sharp beak. Most of them flew away as soon as I had burst in, and I slashed my knife at the rest until they too fled. I turn Maysilee over and see a rather large gash in her neck, along with smaller wounds all over her body, oozing blood. I press my hand over the wound, hoping to slow down the bleeding, but her blood runs, hot and bright red through my grubby fingers. She's already as white as a sheet. I know I can't fix her, but I try to staunch her bleeding with my jacket to buy her some more time. She bleeds right through the fabric almost instantly.

I grab her hand and pull her up in my arms, "Oh, Maysilee..."

I'm terrified. I had thought the uncertainty of death in the arena was torture enough, but now knowing that it was only moments away from taking Maysilee, I only feel desperately helpless. She's alive, she's still here with me, but she'll be gone in a moment. I want to hold onto Maysilee's life, anchor her to this realm, but I can't. This is too much like when my father was dying, sick in bed, rattling out his last breaths. But my father was surrounded by his family at home. Maysilee has only me in this arena that is draining her life away, and I am useless.

Maysilee looks into my eyes and repeats my words from earlier back to me weakly, "Stupid. What kind of idiot runs towards the sound of screaming?"

I hold back tears as I choke out, "You're sounding like a jabberjay."

She smiles and whispers, "Then will you get out and be a mockingjay?"

At this, I can't help but release a sob into my hand as I nod, "Absolutely."

She takes hold of my hand again and grips it tight. She starts to cry as she mutters with uneven breaths, "Haymitch, I… I want to go home." Her hold on my hand is firm, and I hold back as tightly as I can without hurting her, hoping to keep her life from escaping her. But her grip weakens, and she goes limp. Her cannon blasts, confirming what I still didn't want to believe. I hold her tight and I cry and I'm tired of everything. I want to take us both back to 12. I don't want to fight anymore.

I don't know how long I stay here, but I eventually feel pangs of hunger. And I'm reminded of that fact that I'm still in the Hunger Games. If somebody dies, it's not game over for me. I still have to eat, because I still have to survive. When somebody loses, I'm still in the running. The world isn't ending, even if I think it should be. I have my own life to fight for. I made a promise to Leila, and now another to Maysilee. I have to make it out of here alive.

So I get up. Maysilee's hand had stiffened around mine and I gently pull her fingers away. I lay her body flat and fold her arms across her waist, hoping it offers some sense of dignity. I collect her pack and weapons, and as I leave I press my first three fingers to my lips, then point them back to Maysilee in a traditional District 12 farewell, a salute of respect for someone who truly deserves it.

For the next two days, I wait. I drink water and clean my wounds often. My food ran out and my stomach groans in protest of nearly a day and a half of going without anything substantial. Even though I feel like I should just wither away and die right here, I know I need to make it home.

Two cannons had gone off in the night. That leaves two. A final confrontation is inevitable; the Gamemakers will make sure of that. And so I take care of myself as best I can to give myself an edge.

I stay just inside of the arena. The Gamemaker-controlled events, including the thunderstorms, don't seem to stretch beyond the edge of the arena, and I still need to collect water. Plus, I'd rather wait for the tribute to find me here. Their search will leave them tired, as trudging through the ashy slime was exhausting. I figure I can use the cliffside to my advantage if I need to. The abrupt change of scenery could buy me a precious moment to distract the tribute if I'm unable to hurt them inside of the arena, and the forcefield is a secret only I'm aware of. I'm just not sure how I could use it yet.

So I sit on the forest floor and wait for the other tribute to find me. The arena will make sure they do. Since I can duck out of the arena whenever I sense danger, there is nothing anyone can do to force me into a dangerous situation. I conserve my energy and wait because it's all I can do. I don't know my opponent, so I can't prepare any more than I already have.

But my opponent could be anybody. Even Maysilee had not been able to remember every tribute that had died; at times she was only relying on the sound of the cannons to keep track of the number alone. Plus, with four tributes from each district, it was hard to remember which districts had been eliminated or not.

I waste the day lying in the hot sun that peeks through a break in the canopy of leaves high above me. I had long since lost my shirt and it's too hot for my jacket. I want to bake in the sunlight and burst into flames, but even that, I fear, wouldn't distract me from the dark feelings that consume me. My mind isn't making sense of things anymore and I don't want it to. Reality is too tragic and foreboding, and I just don't want to deal with it.

But the fact of the matter is that I'm still just as weak as when I got here. I somehow managed to kill two people, two kids like me, and I'll have to try to kill a third. If I can't take the last tribute's life, then I'll never go home again. If I can, then I'll still have to live with the memory of killing them. I'll have to live with the memories of Pitt and Amara, of the boy with the dart in his throat, of the boy melting in the pond, of Maysilee dying in my arms. I'm just as easily destroyed as all of them.

How long have I been here? I haven't exactly kept track of it, but it can't have been more than nine or ten days. And in that time, 46 tributes have died. Another will die tonight, I'm sure of it. The Capitol won't have their audience wait any longer.

I've gotten this far, and it feels like a tease. I wonder how it's possible that I'm even alive and breathing right now. At the start of the Games, I had a hope of returning home, but I don't know if I ever truly believed I would make it back. And yet, here I am, in the final two. I wonder if it was all chance. Sure, I killed those two careers, but I would have died had it not been for Maysilee hiding in the trees. And it was by chance that I didn't wind up melting in a pond like that one boy. Or that I was one of the first to the Cornucopia, fighting against the tide of over 40 other tributes, and I still survived without a scratch. Well, I had my fair share of cuts and bruises, but I wasn't made sick or disabled in any way.

I think back to my interview from a million years ago and how I joked about the intelligence of the other tributes. Maybe I was right. Maybe the tributes I faced just weren't as powerful as I had thought. If they didn't make it this far, they must not have been the best. But whoever I'm facing, I'm sure, has fought tooth and nail for the chance to win. I hope that, despite their strength, they are dumb. Then, at least, I can try to outsmart them.

I notice the green ribbon on my wrist and vaguely remember the people waiting for me back home. I remember the words we said to each other and the promises I made. But it seems so distant. After only a few days of being here it feels as if I've never been anywhere except for the arena. It's as if it's the only thing that ever existed. I know that it's not true, but it's hard to remember home without asking myself if it really wasn't all a dream.

I think of Leila and my promise to marry her. The thought hardly makes my heart beat like it did the day before I arrived here. I feel guilty, but at the same time, my survival has become my top priority. And the fear and bloodshed I've seen force themselves into the forefront of my mind, reminding me that before I can even dream of anything else, I have to stay alive until these Games are over.

It's getting cooler as the sun begins to set. The shadows of the leaves frame a brilliant orange sky, blended with purples, yellows and reds. I think of how beautiful it is when I remember how beautiful everything in the arena is. This natural beauty could really be manufactured and deceptive too. The sun is halfway set when I hear a rustle of leaves from the arena.

I turn my head around and see the girl who was covered in diamonds and sapphires at the opening ceremonies, the girl from District 1. Her leg is bandaged like mine, and blood is caked on her skin. She huffs in the humid air as she sizes me up, "Shame I couldn't get the full set."

What? I don't respond. I don't want her filling up my head with words right now; I want to get this over with. So I get up with a knife in each hand and I walk towards her. I abandon my backpack; I won't be needing it when this is over. Tonight, I'll be in a hovercraft home, dead or alive.

This tribute looks tired and even confused at my calm, or maybe from poison. I'm not sure, but I do know not to underestimate her. She is a career. She is bigger than me, more muscular. She's got an axe in hand. She finally snaps herself out of her stupor and charges at me.

I immediately notice that my speed will not help here. She is just as fast as I am. I charge right back at her and block her axe as she swings it down at me. It's a powerful blow and I nearly flinch, but I use my other knife to slash at her dominant arm. She draws away and then charges again.

She fakes and catches me off guard. Her axe winds up buried in my left shoulder and is yanked out just as quickly when her arm hammers down again. I dodge, despite the blinding pain that causes tears to prick at my eyes, and realize my arm is useless as it just dangles at my side. This fight has to end quickly.

We hack and stab at each other. I can't deflect her blows well with only one arm and the tribute ends up getting another slice into my shoulder. I ignore the pain and I'm reminded of the tribute who had last tried to take my life. His eyepatch comes to mind and my body moves before I can hesitate; I ram my knife into this tribute's eye.

She shrieks as I yank out my knife, pulling most of her severed eyeball with it. It's sickening, and I can't believe what I've just done. But the girl seems to have a greater tolerance for pain and gore than I do; she takes another shot at me and slashes open my belly.

The pain is unbelievable and I try to avoid doubling over. The girl uses the side of her axe to slap my knife out of my hand. I'm unarmed. This is no longer a battle. It is a hunt. She is the predator and I am the prey. All I can think is that I'm unarmed, I'm dying and I have to do something to end these Games now. But what?

The cliff!

I start running out of the arena as fast as my body lets me. My mind is fragmented and I don't even know why this feels like it makes any sense. One part of my brain has it all figured out, but I'm not consciously aware of what I have planned. The girl chases after me, taking swipes but always missing. I hold my good arm over my stomach and I can actually feel slippery organs threatening to spill from between my fingers. Every step feels like another slice in my abdomen, but the adrenaline coursing through me and my will to survive gives me the ability to power through it.

I reach the edge and turn around. I'm cornered. The tribute seems to have had just about enough of me, and she raises her arm to throw her axe at me. Then my mind clicks, and I know I've set the trap. The only way you can outsmart somebody is to know something they don't know and use it against them. And I know something that she doesn't. I don't even have to duck, because I collapse from the pain.

Everything is fading and I can't really see anything but shadowy figures dancing in the light of the setting sun. I fight to say conscious but it's harder than anything I've ever had to do.

Then, I hear it; the slice of the wind, the smash of the skull, the fall of the body, the sound of the cannon. A trumpet blares and I hear a booming voice as a bright white light surrounds me.

I close my eyes. The 50th Hunger Games are over.


	9. Chapter 9

_Author's Note:_

_All chapters have been reedited. If you're a new reader, please disregard this note. But if you've read the previous chapters before this update, you may want to go back, as there are quite a few new details. Just thought I'd let you know. Thanks for reading!_

_-MFD_

I'm aware of a dim light overhead, but everything seems far away and out of focus. I feel like I could be floating, but the sensation gradually goes away, and I start to feel a dull ache in my stomach. I let out a groan and try to lift myself up.

A hand lands on my chest and pushes me back down, "Now, now Abernathy. Let's not reopen that wound."

My vision gradually clears up and I peer around the room. Foreign machinery stands around my bed, blinking and beeping. Everything is white or a metallic gray. Even the doctor, with his pale skin, white labcoat and peppery hair, matches the room. My head is swimming in a haze, but I manage to slur, "What happened?"

The doctor opens up my eyelid and shines a light in my eye, repeating it on the other side as he says, "My boy, you won the Games, that's what happened."

Did I? It starts coming back to me. I move to lift up the sheets to look at my stomach, but the pain in my shoulder reminds me of the other injury I acquired in that final fight. The doctor continues, "You nearly slipped away from us. We were worried for a moment that we wouldn't have a victor for the ceremonies. Would've cost me my head. But you're recovering well. Ah, here's the problem; your drip ran out."

He pulls one tube out of my arm to replace it with another, "Now rest up. You've got a busy day tomorrow." Whatever is now dripping into my arm drags me back into a dreamless emptiness again.

But I feel like I've only slept for a few minutes when a dull pain in my stomach wakes me back up. A beeping sound pounds in my ears and my doctor rushes back in, "Relax, relax."

He presses a few buttons on a machine and the beeping stops, "That's better. You've had major abdominal surgery. It's just about done healing, but it might be sore for another few days. Same goes for the shoulder. We had to take you off of the morphling so you can be ready for tonight."

I mumble, "What's tonight?" I still can't make sense of anything. My shoulder aches and my stomach stings and I'm all patched up in bandages.

The doctor takes my good arm and starts to pull me out of bed, "Closing ceremonies. Your prep team needs to get to work on you."

And so I'm ushered around in a wheelchair since I can't keep my balance yet thanks to the drugs. I'm wheeled into the same salon I was prepped in before the opening ceremonies and I painfully remember Pitt the entire time my prep team remakes me. I drift in and out, but by the time I hear the roar of the audience, I'm more alert. Valera had sung her praises to me sometime during my makeover, but now she snaps at me, "Get your head back in the game! You made it this far, don't screw it up for me now! And get that look off your face!" She reminds me to play my part and shouts until I put on a mask of emotion.

The blaring music changes and it's my cue, so I stride onto the stage with a false smile plastered on. Once again, Caesar Flickerman greets me and offers me a seat as he begins, "Well, if it isn't Haymitch Abernathy. I think I can speak for all of us when I say it's a pleasure to see you again." The crowd cheers in agreement as Caesar continues, "We watched you from day one and you took us on quite an adventure. It wasn't long before we were all rooting for you, and now here you are, in the flesh. Tell us; how does it feel to be victor?"

I hadn't even stopped to think about it. I won. I am a victor. Victors have a special place in the society of Panem. In the Capitol, they are celebrities. Within their own districts, they are given a house in the Victor's Village. They are awarded an exorbitant salary. And they become mentors for all future tributes of their district. But at what cost?

There are a number of things I'd like to say. I want to scream, 'None of this matters! A bunch of kids are dead because of all of you! Don't you see how sick all of this is?' But I don't think that would be well-received by my Capitol audience. I hold my tongue until I finally manage to wrangle the charm from my former life and say, "Caesar, I'm just relieved. This could've ended very differently."

Caesar nods in agreement, "Yes, it came very close. But you're the one who got to come out here tonight, the victor of the Quell." The cheering from the audience makes me want to vomit. Caesar continues, "How are you holding up? Your injuries seemed rather serious."

I want to distract him from the inevitable questions about the arena, the combat and the tributes. So I say flatly, "Well, I sure as hell won't be doing any back flips anytime soon."

A bought of laughter from the crowd grows and dies and Caesar chuckles, "We'll have to strike that segment from the program then, now won't we?"

But as soon as the laughter disappears from the crowd, he looks back at me and says, "Our wonderful programmers have prepared a reel of your highlights from the arena. Let's all take a fresh look at the Games and watch your rise to the top!"

Music rumbles and the jumbo screen goes dark. I still notice my face on a few of the other screens fixed all over the huge outdoor theatre. My reactions are being monitored, so I hide the dread I feel inside.

The tributes are back on their metal plates. 48 tributes, all gone now. Except for me. I watch myself as I smelled the air and then snapped back into focus, concentrating on the pile of goods in the Cornucopia. It's strange, watching the Games like this, as a spectator, like I was every year. But now it's like déjà vu. There's the camera's point of view, but then there is my memory that brings me back into the arena. Watching the shot of myself on my platform, I instead see from my own perspective, the off-camera Conucopia, the tributes. My old thoughts run through my head, my decision to take a chance and try to claim some supplies, the fear of the other tributes catching up to me and killing me, my plan for running back into the woods. Even the memory of my fear of dying right there in the grass, the longing for home and the people I love had appeared in my mind.

I think back to earlier Games I had watched on television and I now realize that being a tribute is so much more than being a competitor. Those were real human beings in there. But what appears in the film is so disconnected from them. The film barely touches the surface of the true experience of being in the arena.

The starting cannon blasted and I almost jump in my seat before I watch myself dashing to the Cornucopia and arriving at the same time as the boy from District 4. The boy whose throat I would slice open. On my run back, I slashed at arms and legs that reach for me, but the reel cuts to scenes of other tributes clashing at the Cornucopia. Some of them flee like I did. Others stay to fight.

The reel cuts again to Maysilee. She also ran into the forest. Another cut, and there's Amara. She dared to try to find something from the Cornucopia, and she's small enough to sneak past many of the tributes. Pitt was already there, clashing with another boy. Amara went to grab a backpack, but as she looked back, she hesitated. She snatched up a rock and threw it at the boy's head. The distraction gave Pitt all the time he needed to kick the boy away and run him through with a spear.

But another tribute, the blonde from District 1, the one who nearly killed me, came over with a sword in hand. Pitt shoved Amara out of the away, but his spear does nothing to shield him from the blade that pierces his heart. In another swift motion, the girl yanked the sword from his chest and rams it into Amara, who had been too shocked to move. The sound of their cannons is drowned out by the others.

I remember the female tribute's words to me, "Shame I couldn't get the full set." She meant the District 12 tributes. She had missed her chance to murder Maysilee, but she had intended on adding me to her kill list. I feel sick to my stomach and I try not to pay attention to the quick cut scenes of the rest of the tributes' deaths.

A montage of Maysilee and I comes up next. I kill two tributes, she saves me from a third. We team up. We help each other out. I hear myself talking enthusiastically about home and Maysilee doing the same. But I notice they don't include her mention of her mockingjay pin. When they show her death scene, I grit my teeth as I watch the bird stab through her throat just as I crash through the bushes. The look on my face, of guilt, of anguish, is one I've never seen before. Covered in blood, mud, sweat and ash, I am just another animal in the forest. It's hard to believe it's me, running up to Maysilee, cradling her, rocking her back and forth as she dies in my arms, tears streaking through the grime on my face. It becomes difficult to watch, so I avert my eyes until it's over. Once again, they cut our last words to each other, but I know I'll never forget them.

The final battle with the girl from District 1, whose name, I learn from the commentary, is Luxe, is intense, and fresh in my memory. I can almost feel the axe in my shoulder again, and when my on-screen image stabs her in the eye, I feel an incredible urge to vomit, and it isn't helped by the sight of my disemboweled organs threatening to slip through my fingers as I run towards the cliff. And then I see what I was too delirious to notice in the arena.

Luxe hurls her axe at me and I collapse on the ground. Even though she missed, she clearly seems to think she's won, seeing as I was squirming on the ground and there was no question that she could outlast me. She covers her empty eye socket with her hand and waits. If she were smarter, she would have finished me off herself. She looks up in horror. The axe had bounced off of the force field as I had predicted, and it burrows into her skull before she can react. The cannon is fired, the trumpets sounds, and the film ends.

Caesar turns back to me and notices my discomfort, so he takes it easy on me and asks me a few more, less-intrusive questions that I can answer with only a few words before he congratulates me again and lets the program progress. There's a short crowning ceremony in which President Snow places a gold circlet on my head, and I try to pay attention to his words and present myself well, but he's giving off the most potent smell of roses and it only makes my nausea worse. I even detect the faint stench of blood and I fear I may have torn open some of my stitches.

Finally, the show is over and I make my way backstage. As soon as I'm behind the curtains, I vomit on the stage floor. Not much comes up since I've only been fed through a tube for the past few days, but I heave until nothing is left, despite the pain in my freshly-stitched stomach. I didn't need to relive the Games, especially not when it's glorified like this, with an audience of morally-deprived people who had a swell time watching children die. I am disgusted with them and I'm disgusted with myself for bending to their will and playing in their Games, even if it was to save my life. It's a shame like nothing I've ever felt before.

Valera tiptoes around my little puddle of vomit and grabs me by the sleeve. I'm dragged to a lavish room where Caesar and I record a second interview to be aired the next day. He notices my instability and tries to make the interview pleasant and detailed, but short. He asks about my thoughts on the Games, the arena, Maysilee and going home. Once again, I censor myself and do my best to seem pleasant, only because I'm tired of Valera shrieking at me at every chance she gets, and I don't want to give her another reason to be mad.

After the interview, I'm taken to party after party all night, forced to smile in photos with these wealthy monsters and charm them until they leave me alone for even more ridiculously-dressed beasts to take their turn with me, trying not to show disgust at their lifestyle or pain from over-exerting myself so soon after surgery. I'm presented with platters of meat, fruits, vegetables, cakes, puddings, cheeses, and candies of all types, and I remember the sight of myself in the mirror of the salon this morning, emaciated with ribs threatening to burst out of me, my arms and legs turned to twigs. My prep team even had to make up my face to fill my gaunt cheeks. I bluntly ask the occasional clown why they're showering me with food now and not when I really needed it when I was literally starving in the arena. They all laugh as if I was making a hilarious joke. But the question is rhetorical. I already know the answer. These people are the scum of the earth.

The parties end just an hour or two before dawn. Just like when I was sent to the arena, I don't get to spend another night in the Capitol before I'm whisked straight to the train in my tuxedo. An attendant leads me to my room and I collapse on the bed with nothing to distract me from the deaths of forty-seven tributes replaying over and over again in my mind's eye. I can't sleep at all and I'm tempted to trash the room like last time, but my body just doesn't have the strength. Instead, I scream into my pillow until I'm hoarse.

Once I've rendered myself mute, I can't help but think; Does this ever end? Or will I always carry the ghosts of forty-seven tributes with me? Will I ever be able to wash the blood off my hands? The more I try to ignore the haunting thoughts, the quicker they thrust themselves into the forefront of my mind, and every jolt of pain from my stomach, my shoulder, my leg, is just another reminder that drags me back into the arena. I'm teetering on the edge of my mind and I want to forget everything.

That afternoon, I wake up feeling miserable. But we've arrived in District 12. I want to feel happy to be back, but I'm still wary as I'm taken down a closed path to the Justice Building. I suppose it's just residual suspicion from the arena. Valera spouts off a list of instructions for my homecoming ceremony. I ignore her, and I can hear a crowd of voices outside. But instead of the excitement that ran through the audience of the Capitol, curiosity and concern tickle the murmurs spoken in the familiar cadence of my district. I'm really home. It's hard to wrap my head around, but I'm home.

The doors open and I'm led back onto the platform in the market square where I stood with three other tributes only a few weeks ago. Before I felt lonely because I thought I was alone in all of this. But now I feel the same way, probably because I knew them, even if it wasn't for very long. I wish we could share the stage again.

Valera silences the crowd and puts her mask of bubbly optimism on again as she presents me as my District's victor. I ignore her as she goes on and on about my valiance and the glory I've earned, and instead scan the spectators. There are hundreds packed into the tiny square, with many funneled into the connecting alleys. Dusted with coal and weary from the heat, it's hard to tell whether they really want to be here or not. The Games are something we from 12 aren't fans of. While some people do watch the Games out of curiosity, there are many others who grudgingly attend the mandatory events or watch the required viewings. But District 12 has only had one previous victor, and she is a distant memory. If any of them want to be here, it's only to witness the rare victor come home.

I search the crowd for the only faces I care about, but there are only hardy miners with their hands in their pockets, children looking up at me in wonder, and the kids from school who will never look at me the same way again.

And then I see them.

In the back of the crowd stands my mother, tears in her eyes as she smiles at me from across the square. Elias has an arm around her and he's got the biggest grin on his face. And there's Leila beside them. I shout, "Leila!"

Valera, clearly annoyed at my interruption, breaks character and snaps at me, "What do you think you're doing?" But I ignore her and hop off the stage, fighting through the pain in my gut, and run through the crowd that parts for me, cameramen following close behind, tripping over their wires. Leila starts to run at me too. I feel a vigor ignite in my heart that I forgot existed, a feeling I thought had died and stayed behind in the arena. I fought to come back and see this girl again, and there's no way some stupid ceremony protocol is going to stop me.

We reach each other and I hold her as tight as I can and bury my face in her hair. I feel tears coming from my eyes, but they are happy ones. She's sputtering my name over and over again and I feel her fall against me when her knees go out, so I go down to my knees too and I kiss her. There's a cheer in the crowd, but I pay no attention, I just press Leila close to me again, telling myself I'll never let her go.

Someone crouches down beside us and pats me on the back. I look up to see that it's Elias. I drag him right down to the ground with us and pull him in close with one arm, keeping Leila locked in the other. My heart is jumping and burning with relief, with joy, with things I don't even have the words for. I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be so lucky to have made it out alive. I wasn't supposed to make it. But for some reason, I'm still on this earth. The people who I was certain I would never see again are here in my arms again. What I feel is not happiness or ecstasy. I am off the charts, beyond normal comprehension. This feeling is madness. A wonderful madness.

My mother runs her fingers through my hair and I get up to hug her too, but she pulls away and takes my hand. Without a word, she leads us away from the square, and we all go back home to our little house in the Seam.

_Author's Note:_

_I'm not sure whether or not to end the story here or not. There will be a sequel either way. If you're interested in reading it, you can check my user profile for new stories, or check back here for details. Reviews are greatly appreciated. Thanks for reading!_

_-MFD_


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